Like Glass
by Penguin
Summary: FINISHED! War is over and Voldemort defeated; Harry has been used and thrown away. He lives in Muggle London, lost, confused and destroyed. But Lupin and others want him to return to the wizarding world, and Draco Malfoy is sent out to find him. Slash.
1. Part 1

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Note:  
On my LJ, I asked people to give me a pairing and an object to write about. Frances Potter requested "Harry/Draco, maybe something post-war. Object – Harry's wand." So, this story is for her.

Many thanks to my reviewers over on LJ.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS

Part 1

Harry's life ought to have been wonderful.  
  
He had defeated Lord Voldemort, fulfilled the prophecy and done everything he should. But instead of feeling that his life was about to begin, he felt it was over, as if it had ended with the war. The grandest, most important and most overwhelming deed of his life had been done. It was what he'd always be remembered for; nothing he could do would ever surpass it. He had passed the peak moment of his life before he had even left his teens.  
  
And Voldemort, in a way, was still as present as ever. Harry's life, Harry's fate was still bound to Voldemort – their names had always been connected, and would continue to be. Sometimes Harry wondered who had really won.  
  
He also wondered if Voldemort had lived with the perpetual green light at the back of his mind, the light that now seemed to be Harry's own. It never went away. It was there in his sleep; it was there in daylight, however clear the sun was. He had seen so much death he would never be rid of the visual echoes of it.  
  
He descended into a depression that, like always with him, took the form of a passive, stony silence, broken at intervals by sudden outbursts of uncontrollable rage.  
  
- - -  
  
"Depression in males, wizards as well as Muggles, often expresses itself as aggressiveness."  
  
It was Dr Smith who said this in her usual prim, officious manner to Remus Lupin when Harry Potter had been admitted to St Mungo's after a nasty incident.   
  
He had got into a drunken row with a wizard roughly his own age at a bar in Hogsmeade. It had got ugly very quickly. Witnesses said the boys had suddenly got to their feet and started shouting at each other. Harry had broken a glass pane with a spell and snatched up a viciously sharp, pointed shard. He had slammed the terrified boy up against the wall and held the shard against his neck, threatening to cut his artery.  
  
In the end, Harry had let himself be talked out of his rage and allowed the piece of broken glass to fall to the floor, where it had shattered against the flagstones. But not until he had coolly, deliberately cut the skin of the boy's neck. Not violently, not dangerously. Not a deep cut. Only enough to draw blood that trickled slowly down the white skin and disappeared under the boy's collar. Only enough to make his point, whatever that point was. Perhaps just to say "I'm capable of this. Stay away from me."  
  
Only a week before this incident, Harry had been involved in a similar one at a pub in Diagon Alley. It had included a Daily Prophet journalist, a broken pint glass and a highly intoxicated, aggressive Harry.  
  
The wizarding world was shocked and horrified at the violent acts in themselves, but also, although no one said so openly, at the barbaric, Muggle-like fashion in which they had been carried out. Wand-fights were so much cleaner, so much more refined.  
  
Harry Potter was sentenced to treatment in a locked ward at St Mungo's rather than to prison or community service. After all, his services to the wizarding community had already been beyond measure.  
  
He seemed to be drawn to glass. Perhaps there was something about its combined strength and fragility that made him subconsciously identify with it. Glass panes let light into dark chambers, but when broken, they became sharp and jagged, a lethal weapon. Glass glittered and shone and didn't lose its beauty even when shattered. Perhaps, the team of Mediwizards said, this was how Harry Potter felt. Fragile, threatened, but always with a danger potential of his own. A sheet of glass in a world full of sledgehammers.  
  
After three uneventful weeks in the locked ward at St Mungo's, Harry Potter was left unsupervised in a healer's office. Only seconds after the healer had left the room, Harry pushed his hands through the glass door. They found him conscious but bleeding profusely, kneeling unsteadily in front of a spiked, glittering halo of broken glass, his hands and arms still pushed through the hole. He stared dazedly at the blood flowing from the cuts on his wrists and arms, dripping and splashing down on the shards on the floor.  
  
A year later he was released from hospital. He was twenty years old, a thin, bony, not very tall young man with a mop of black hair and a pair of green eyes that would have been beautiful if they had held the slightest spark of life.  
  
The Boy Who Lived? Perhaps, back then. But that time was past.  
  
- - -  
  
Harry didn't want to die any more, but he didn't particularly want to live, either. He just lacked energy. There was nothing there that could fill his empty life or give it some meaning.  
  
He fled from the press, fled from attention, fled to Muggle London and discovered that amphetamine was a great drug and the only thing that seemed to fill some of the void. It took away his fatigue, it took away his hunger, and not only in the most literal sense. But it also introduced a different kind of hunger – it made him want sex more than he had ever wanted it.  
  
So he took it, from everywhere and everyone.  
  
Months went past, but he lost track of time. He didn't eat, he didn't sleep, and the more or less constant drug level in his bloodstream was high enough to be killing him slowly. And then, unexpectedly, just before his 21st birthday, he met someone he knew from another world – someone who had possibly always wished him dead.  
  
Draco Malfoy ought to have been pleased.  
  
- - -  
  
Draco Malfoy wasn't pleased.  
  
He looked at the gaunt ghost of Harry Potter and wanted to yell and rage and beat at him with his fists, and why not cry, too. But he didn't. He seized Harry by the arm and dragged him out of the bar, out in the street, away.  
  
"For Merlin's sake, pull yourself together," he said coldly to the shaking Potter in the dim candle light of a room with a creaking wood floor, high above the noise of Diagon Alley. "Here," he added and pointed his wand when he saw that Potter really was incapable of doing just that.  
  
The spell would take the edge off Potter's withdrawal symptoms, at least for a few hours. Then they could take it from there. Potter stopped shaking and was only pale now, not greenish.  
  
"You stink, Potter. Have a shower. The bathroom is there. There are towels in the cupboard."  
  
Potter disappeared silently into the bathroom and shut the door. He hadn't said a word after they had left that awful, sleazy Muggle bar – in fact the only thing he had uttered when he saw Draco was "oh, fuck". But he hadn't resisted when Draco had led him out in the street and taken him back to Diagon Alley. Perhaps because he had only been dimly aware what was going on.  
  
Draco hadn't found Potter by coincidence – far from it. He had been sent out specifically, by Remus Lupin and probably others behind him, to look for Potter. He had protested at first – Potter and he hadn't exactly been the best of friends, had they, even after Draco had joined Dumbledore's and Potter's forces? So why did Lupin think Potter would come with him, Draco, of all people? Lupin hadn't answered that. He had only said, with that mild but indisputable authority that was particularly his, that Draco was the best person to go.  
  
So Draco went.  
  
It didn't take him long to find Potter. Wizards had an excellent network even in the Muggle world, and there were very few wizards and witches who wouldn't know Harry Potter on sight. Potter was clearly in miserable shape – but what would you expect from someone who had taken to using Muggle drugs.  
  
Draco shook his head as he listened to the subdued splash of water in the bathroom. He had no idea what to do next. He guessed he would just owl Lupin, and Lupin would take over from here.  
  
Potter emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his hips, still looking dazed and not quite present. Draco could easily have counted his ribs, if he had wanted to. Potter looked like a thestral.  
  
"There are clean pyjamas for you," Draco said, and his haughty voice had a strange undertone that sounded uncomfortably like tears.  
  
Potter let the towel fall, and Draco turned away.  
  
"Do you think you can sleep?" Draco asked, still with his back turned, and wondered why he was trembling.  
  
Potter didn't reply, and when Draco turned to look at him questioningly, he realised he was looking at someone who hadn't known sleep for months. The bewildered look on Potter's face suggested he had even forgotten the meaning of the word.  
  
Potter was shaking again. Draco repeated his spell, gave Potter a strong sleeping potion and nudged him towards the bed.  
  
"Is it safe to leave you here? Will you run off?" It was like talking to a child.  
  
Potter shook his head.  
  
"You're wanted back in the wizarding world, Potter. Lupin doesn't want to watch you kill yourself. Personally, I think they ought to let you do whatever the fuck you want to do – you're an adult and you killed Voldemort for them. They ought to stop demanding things from you."  
  
Draco bit his tongue. He had surprised himself twice – first by showing both himself and Potter that he'd actually been contemplating Potter's situation, and secondly by realising that the wizarding world oughtn't to stop asking things of Potter at all. That was exactly what had gone wrong here. Once Potter had saved their world, they had dropped him as if he had burnt their fingers. They had celebrated their victory for a while, the victory _he_ had won for them; they had written and read about their hero in the papers... but only for a little while. Then everything had just gone back to normal, and no one had expected anything of Potter any more. They hadn't expect him to need them; they hadn't expected him to _think_. And they hadn't wanted to think about him, either.  
  
But Potter probably wasn't listening to Draco anyway. Draco went on, with words that tasted of blood from his bitten tongue:  
  
"I'm going to take your wand, Potter, and secure the room with spells you can't break without one. Not my idea, and I'm sorry about it, but that's the instructions I have from Lupin. It's only for tonight, and it's not a punishment or anything; it's just for your own safety. Lupin will come and get you tomorrow."  
  
Potter didn't react at all. He looked at Draco with unseeing eyes, which was unbelievably unsettling, and slowly sat down on the bed. Then he pointed towards the bathroom door, zombie-like. Draco's gaze followed his finger.  
  
"What – ?"  
  
"My wand," Potter said in a weak, tired voice. "It's in the bathroom. On the floor. With my clothes. I'm tired."  
  
And then he began to cry, tearlessly, like a dry, hacking cough. Draco stared at Potter, who sobbed uncontrollably for thirty seconds before the sleeping draught overpowered him, and he rolled into bed and pulled the covers up over his head.  
  
Draco, more shaken than he'd been since his father was taken to Azkaban, picked up Potter's wand from the bathroom floor, left Potter's room and locked it securely with five different spells.


	2. Part 2

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS

Part 2

Draco couldn't sleep. He kept twisting and turning in the near-dark, listening to unfamiliar street sounds because they couldn't be shut out, listening intently for sounds through the wall because he couldn't help it. But from Potter's room there was nothing but silence.  
  
The hours wound on, and Draco finally gave up trying to sleep. He lit the candle by his bed and lay watching shadows dance on the walls as the candle flame flickered and fluttered in the draught.  
  
What would happen tomorrow? (Today, Draco corrected himself as he saw the first glimmer of light in the sky.) What would happen to Potter? He looked as though he hadn't eaten properly for months, it was obvious that he hadn't slept, either, and there was something very wrong with him even apart from the drug abuse; _underneath_ the drug abuse.  
  
Something seriously wrong.  
  
Why had Potter turned over his wand to Draco so easily? No wizard, however exhausted, frightened or confused, would ever willingly hand over his wand to another wizard. But Potter had acted as if his wand was an ordinary, dull object, like a rock or an apple or a piece of string. And this was the wand – holly, phoenix feather, eleven inches – that had defeated the Dark Lord.  
  
Draco suddenly realised that it was the mystery of Potter's wand that had kept him awake all night.  
  
The wand was lying innocently on the desk by the window now, and Draco's eyes kept wandering to it. He couldn't help wanting to go over to it, to pick it up and hold it… just to try it and see what would happen…  
  
He turned around in bed to face the wall, but the image of the wand stayed in his mind, nagging, refusing to leave him alone.  
  
He had carried it to his room last night, but he had been too shaken then to want to try to use it. As a matter of fact, he had carried it between his thumb and his forefinger and hurried to put it down, as if afraid it would bite. Then he had gone straight into the shower and stayed there for a good twenty minutes, so upset by the emotions stirred up by seeing Potter that he needed to be soothed. It wasn't only the sadness at seeing Potter in this lamentable state, but he also had to fight sudden memories of school, of their childhood, of more recent events that he rarely allowed to surface in his mind: His father imprisoned in Azkaban; his own loss of faith in everything he had believed in. Those who had died. And those who hadn't died but would have been better off if they had.  
  
Lord Voldemort was defeated and gone, but in a way, he had still won this war. Evil always wins a small victory simply by showing its face – it will always remain alive in those who have seen it.  
  
Sadness, grief, pain – that was the lasting effect of war. They had naïvely expected happiness to return instantly when the war ended, like... well, like magic. But in reality, the magical world was as ill-equipped as the Muggle world to handle the aftermath of war. They had expected their dark memories to be erased and their wounds to be healed, but it hadn't happened. It might never happen. Only time might accomplish what the healers hadn't.  
  
Draco got out of bed, padded over to the desk and stood looking down at the wand. The dark wood looked polished and gleaming despite the rough treatment it must have received. Potter hadn't looked as if anything in his life had been taken good care of lately.  
  
In a sense, wands were custom-made, and wizards never used each other's wands if they could help it. Sometimes it was unavoidable, but if there was a choice, they used their own. Draco wondered why he wanted to try this one so badly. It belonged to one powerful wizard and had destroyed another – did he want to be part of that power? He didn't believe that was the reason. After all, he had never wanted to try his father's wand, or Bellatrix's, although he had had the opportunity to do so on several occasions.  
  
He stretched out a hand, touched the polished handle and slowly closed his fingers around it. He lifted it up, held it in front of him and suddenly, inexplicably felt like a beginner – there was even the echo of old, old instructions in his head: "Swish and flick, Draco! And you must pronounce the spell very clearly."  
  
"_Lumos_," he whispered hoarsely.  
  
He was prepared to drop the wand, to extinguish sudden flames, to run for cover – but nothing happened.  
  
Nothing at all. Not a stir; not even the tiniest spark.  
  
The wand was dead in his hand.


	3. Part 3

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS

Part 3

Still shaken and puzzled by the incident with Potter's wand, Draco went to undo the five locking spells on Potter's door. He opened it, wary of what he would find – but the room was empty. Alarmed, he looked around trying to find the escape route, but then he heard retching noises from the bathroom. He made a face somewhere in between relief and disgust.  
  
After a few minutes, Potter emerged, pale and sweating with shaking hands. He didn't show any surprise at seeing Draco in the room; he just went over to the bed and lay down, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. Draco opened his bag and took out some potions that Lupin had provided him with, poured two of them into a glass and handed it to Potter, who emptied it quickly, barely managing not to gag.  
  
"Have you called Lupin?" he asked, shuddering as he returned the empty glass to Draco.  
  
It was the first thing either of them had uttered, and their fingers brushed. Draco wasn't sure which one of those things made him jump.  
  
"Called?"  
  
"Owled, I mean."  
  
"No, not yet. I thought I'd check on you first."  
  
Potter sat up, which appeared to require some effort. His eyes danced unsteadily around the room.  
  
"Would you…" His voice trailed off and he tried again. "I just wondered if…"  
  
Whatever it was he wanted to say, it appeared to be difficult.  
  
"_What_, Potter?"  
  
"Who will be taking me back? You?"  
  
"Probably, or Lupin will come and get you. Why?"  
  
Potter's eyes were suddenly hazy with pain, and Draco doubted it was a pain that potions could cure. Potter tried to say something again, and stalled again. Finally he said in an almost inaudible voice:  
  
"I know we've never liked each other much… to say the least… but I was wondering if I could ask you a favour."  
  
Draco bit back his reply of "I'm already doing you a favour" and said: "Depends on what it is, Potter. I have my mission, which is to try to return you to the wizarding world. If you're going to ask me to leave you here, just like that, the answer is no."  
  
Potter shook his head. "It's just… I'd just like to know…where you'll be taking me." He took a deep breath. "And how we're going to travel."  
  
Draco frowned. Potter hadn't said "where we'll be going" but "where you'll be taking me". He seemed to assume that he was some kind of prisoner. Perhaps he was, but whatever had him trapped seemed to come from within himself.  
  
"Well, Potter – I'll tell you what I was sent out to do. I was asked to go to Muggle London and find you, talk to you and try to make you come back to the wizarding world. We knew what to expect – we'd had several reports about your drug abuse. I was ordered to take your wand for the night and lock you in to keep you from hurting yourself – but you're not a prisoner. I have no authority over you. If you ask for your wand, I'll have to give it back to you, but I might as well tell you I won't do that until we've talked properly. I was asked to try to persuade you to come back, and that's what I'll do."  
  
To his surprise, Potter gave something that was apparently meant to be a laugh, although it was more of a croak. It ceased as abruptly as it had begun.  
  
"And where would you be taking me, if you took me back?" he asked.  
  
"Where would you want to go?"  
  
Potter let himself fall back on the bed and closed his eyes. He was silent for a long time before he replied:  
  
"What I'd like to go back to doesn't exist any more."  
  
Draco turned his face away and felt his eyes sting. _I know what you mean, Potter. I know what you mean._  
  
"Will you come, though?" he said in a low voice.  
  
Silence. Draco turned to look at Potter, who had covered his face with his hands. Through his fingers, he said:  
  
"How are we travelling?"  
  
"Depends on where we're going. If we're going to that horrible House of Black, I suggest we Apparate. That would be the quickest way by far. And if we're going to Hogwarts – what's left of it – we can Apparate to Hogsmeade and get a carriage from there. Lupin suggested Hogwarts. The hospital wing has been restored, and they're taking in patients who aren't students."  
  
"No, no Apparating," Potter said hastily. "And no travelling by Floo system, either."  
  
Draco was losing his patience.  
  
"What do you want to do then – fly a broomstick, and promptly appear on the Muggle news? I'm not authorised to create portkeys. Neither are you, as far as I know."  
  
Potter was silent for a while, and then said in a tired voice: "Would you mind… not owling Lupin for another day or two?"  
  
Draco snapped. The entire situation was too much – Potter's problems, Draco's own powerlessness, the fact that he didn't understand what was going on, what Potter was getting at... He hated not understanding. "What the fuck's going on with you, Potter?" he said viciously. "Why are you so fussy about travel arrangements – are you worried that The Boy Who Lived won't return to the wizarding world with the proper grandeur and stateliness?" He felt a grim satisfaction when he saw Potter wince. "And what's this about Lupin? Too grand to want to talk to a werewolf these days?"  
  
"I didn't want to talk to any of you, Malfoy!" Potter almost shouted. "Least of all _you_! And I _hate_ having to beg you for anything, anything at all!"  
  
This, at least, was something Draco could relate to. He took a deep breath. He had been warned that Potter would behave oddly – he couldn't let it get to him like this. He had to remain civil.  
  
"So am I to understand that you refuse to go back with me? There's no need to beg, you know. You're not my prisoner. I didn't ask to do this, and just like you, I'd much rather be somewhere else, but for now, you're my guest. I don't expect gratitude, but I do expect you to be reasonable. Shall I just leave, then? Is that what you want?"  
  
Potter sat up again, clearly beginning to feel the positive effects of the potions. His face had a healthier colour than the greyish hue of earlier, and his eyes were red-rimmed but steady. The green gaze was unnerving. There were still traces of his old power, the power that used to flare and burn in him and help them not lose hope.  
  
"No, I don't want you to leave. In a way, I do want to go back, but I don't see… Malfoy, I just don't see how I _can_. So, again: would you mind not owling Lupin – or anyone – just yet?"  
  
There was a quiet urgency in his voice that made something inside Draco stop fluttering and be still. He straddled a chair back to front, rested his arms on top of the backrest and his chin on his arms, and said: "Okay. I'm not in a hurry. You seem to want to tell me something. What is it?"  
  
Potter stared at him and tried to smile, but his face only twisted itself into a grimace.  
  
"I would have thought you'd have it figured out long before now," he said with something that could have been contempt, if Draco hadn't seen the hopelessness in his eyes. "What's wrong with me, I mean. They tried their best at St Mungo's but they never even got close to the truth. I don't want to tell _you_ particularly, Malfoy. I don't want to tell anyone. But you're not stupid, I'll say that for you, and you'll find out sooner or later anyway. Probably sooner, if you're taking me back there."  
  
Draco felt a chill down his spine. He had loathed Potter for years, loathed and hated him, and then slowly and grudgingly come to admire him. Eventually he had even felt sorry for him, for where all his courage and brilliance had taken him: dumped on the rubbish heap. The prospect of receiving confidences from Potter would once have made Draco elated. Now, it frightened him. He wanted to respond but felt inadequate and completely out of his depth.  
  
"If you want, I could get someone for you…? Someone from St. Mungo's…?"  
  
"No," Potter spat. "I've talked enough to those people. There's nothing they can do. There's nothing _you_ can do, either, but someone needs to know this. And when Lupin hears about it, he'll change his mind about bringing me back."  
  
"I think," said Draco weakly, "that we both need breakfast. You can tell me while we eat."  
  
Potter looked confused, as though the concept of breakfast was one he had forgotten. He probably had. He lay back on the bed and was silent until Tom had brought them an enormous breakfast tray and left again.  
  
Draco handed Potter a plate heaped with bacon and eggs.  
  
"And now," he said firmly, watching Potter glance sideways at the sizzling slices of bacon like a suspicious cat eyeing offered food, "now we'll talk."  
  
- - -  
  
Potter ate as if he hadn't seen food for a year. Draco sipped his tea and watched, thinking Potter needed to get rid of that thestral look, then wondering if the food would make him sick again.  
  
"I have a confession to make," he said while Potter was still chewing. "Last night, I tried to use your wand."  
  
Potter choked. When he had stopped coughing, he looked hard at Draco for a few moments. Then he went over to the desk, unceremoniously picked up his wand and said "_Lumos_." It was the same simple spell Draco had tried some hours ago, and it had exactly the same effect it had had then: none at all. Potter threw the wand back on the desk and looked at Draco, defiantly.  
  
"_Tried to_ is the key phrase, isn't it? What happened when you tried it?"  
  
"Same as now. Nothing."  
  
Potter stared at him. "It – it didn't? Nothing at all?"  
  
"Nothing. It was just sitting there in my hand like any ordinary piece of wood."  
  
To Draco's astonishment, Potter's eyes filled with tears. He turned away very quickly and coughed to hide it.  
  
"But for you... it ends there," he said, his face still turned away.  
  
Draco didn't understand. "What ends where?"  
  
Potter turned again, and that moment his eyes showed all the pain, the resignation, loneliness and squalor he had experienced the past year. Draco caught his breath.  
  
"Pick up your own wand," Potter said in a voice that was strangely flat and hard. "Use the _Lumos_ spell."  
  
Draco did as he was asked, and the tip of the wand lit up obediently with a blue light that was barely visible in the morning light flowing in from the window.  
  
"Let me try it," Potter demanded in the same hard voice.  
  
Draco hesitated – he never let anyone use his wand. But this situation was so extraordinary he didn't see why it shouldn't continue that way. He handed Potter the wand without a word and couldn't help wincing when Potter took it and their fingers brushed a second time.  
  
"Thanks," Potter said, and when their eyes met, Draco could see that it wasn't merely a word. Potter understood what the gesture meant to Draco, and appreciated it.  
  
He pointed the wand and said "_Lumos_". Nothing happened. No light emerged from the tip of the wand, not even the tiniest blue spark. He pointed the wand at his teacup and said "_Wingardium leviosa_". The cup remained where it was; it didn't even make the faintest rattle against its saucer. Potter handed the wand back to Draco and said:  
  
"_Now_ do you understand?"  
  
Draco felt as if his brain had melted. He looked stupidly from Potter to the wand and back again, and then back to the wand again, shaking it a little as if that would tell him what was going on. He put it on the desk, stood up and met Potter's eyes. They were level with his own now, and still filled with that terrible pain, anger and fear. Draco thought he would go to pieces. He had never felt this sorry for anyone in his entire life.  
  
"Are you... have you..." he stammered idiotically.  
  
"Yes," Potter said in that tight, hard voice. "That's why I can't go back with you, Malfoy, even if I wanted to. That's why I don't think I'd be welcome in the wizarding world. I've lost my magic."


	4. Part 4

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Note: This story was written as a birthday present for Slowfox.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS

Part 4  
  
When Draco Malfoy entered that bar, he was luminous. In Harry's blurred vision, through the drug haze and the smoke, he shone. He shimmered. A figure from the past, appearing in a dream.  
  
An invisible wall separated Harry from the world. The Muggle world, the wizarding world. No difference. He was never really present, not like other people were. Pain made him present, but sometimes he was too tired for pain. Mental fog was good, too. Clear, sharp pain or fuzzy oblivion; those things made sense.  
  
The invisible wall helped him not care. But Draco Malfoy seemed to slip right through it, smoothly and effortlessly, as if it had been the barrier to Platform 9 ¾, as if had been a sheet of glass suddenly turned into water.  
  
Malfoy took him away. He allowed himself to be taken away; didn't even protest at being taken to The Leaky Cauldron. There was no risk in that. Muggles could go to Diagon Alley, if they knew how.  
  
Harry didn't remember the rest of that evening and night very clearly, but in the morning, sick, shaking and trapped, he found himself wishing that Malfoy had killed him instead of just taking away his wand. Taking his wand was no punishment. It was no relief, either. It just didn't mean anything at all. The only reason why Harry had kept it with him all this time was a futile, pathetic hope that his magic would return. It hadn't.  
  
He vomited and sweated and tried to think of a way to escape. He needed more drugs. He needed to sink into that blissful state of oblivion. He needed to get away before Malfoy found out the truth.  
  
And then Malfoy came into the room, still shimmering pale in the morning light. He seemed unaware of it. He gave Harry some potions that cleared his head, and told him he wasn't a prisoner. A guest, he called it. Harry was free to go.  
  
Free! He had never known what it was like, being free.  
  
Once he had been told he could go, he found he was reluctant to. But as he gradually began to feel better physically, his thoughts returned, too, and nothing frightened him more than that. He had spent the past two years trying not to think.  
  
Malfoy talked, asked questions. So he refused to go? So he didn't want to go back to the wizarding world? Harry wanted to bang his head against the wall and scream: BUT OF COURSE I DO! OF COURSE I FUCKING WANT TO GO BACK! WHAT DO YOU ALL THINK???  
  
There was only one little problem. Returning only required one tiny little thing: he needed his magic back.  
  
He could just leave The Leaky Cauldron; he could leave and resume his miserable life. He could be dead in a few months, or a few hours. It would be easy. But seeing Malfoy brought back unwanted memories of power, of warmth, of loyalty and laughter – in short, of a magical world he had lost. A world he had never allowed himself to miss and grieve consciously, although everything he did, every action, every thought, was to blot out the grief.  
  
Now he had had a glimpse of it, vivid and painful. Ironically, all he had to hold on to now was Draco Malfoy. He had to hold on to Malfoy, or the magic would slip away again, for the last time. Out of his reach for good.  
  
And now Malfoy was saying "tell me, talk to me, tell me".  
  
Harry suddenly realised, in a tired, oddly distant way, that this was what Malfoy had been saying ever since they first met, all through their school years. All his nasty comments and actions, his meanness and his viciousness – it all boiled down to "talk to me, talk to me, talk to me".  
  
Finally, Harry was ready to talk. He noted, at the back of his mind, that Malfoy finally seemed ready to listen.  
  
"What happened at St Mungo's?" Malfoy was asking.  
  
Big question. Long answer. Or a very short one.  
  
"Nothing," Harry said, cowardly going with the short answer.  
  
He saw Malfoy's jaw set, sighed and moved on to the long answer: "And everything."  
  
He owed it to Malfoy. Malfoy was taking good care of him and being thoroughly decent. In fact he had been decent ever since he joined their side, Dumbledore's side, Dumbledore's Army, back in the war. There had been a good deal of scepticism towards him at first, but he had proved himself. And now that Dumbledore was gone, Malfoy was still here, still loyal to what was left of the dissolved Order.  
  
Harry closed his eyes and prepared himself for pain. Not physical. The pain of the mind was far worse to deal with.  
  
St Mungo's, just after the war: Harry was being treated with potions, ointments and talk. Talk, talk, talk. Questions, questions, probing questions that only elicited dishonest, evasive answers.  
  
Harry had always been skilled at hiding the important things, the painful and deeply personal things. He continued doing it as if out of habit.  
  
Words flew through the air; the words of the healers trying to do battle with his own. But they were playing in different leagues.  
  
He couldn't remember when he first discovered he could no longer perform magic. When he had finally defeated Voldemort, with the help of a tremulous but brave and determined Neville Longbottom, he had mercifully passed out and been taken straight to St Mungo's by members of the Order. He had been unconscious for three days and then gradually surfaced out of the dark, oblivious depths. Up, up, through strange, floating dreams into bleak reality.  
  
Physically, he had healed and recovered well and quickly. He had been released from hospital after a mere two weeks.  
  
"And then it began," said Harry weakly, still with his eyes closed.  
  
"_What_ did?" said Malfoy.  
  
Surprised, Harry opened his eyes and saw Malfoy on the edge of his chair, eyes wide, like an eager six-year-old Muggle boy at a movie matinée.  
  
"The descent into Hell, I suppose," Harry said, and smiled a little.  
  
His life, a matinée, a suspense movie.  
  
Malfoy was fighting to understand, to grasp a different world, a different life, new concepts. The concept of Hell was not one he had encountered before, and Harry had to explain. Malfoy's face broke up in confusion. He obviously thought Hell was a melodramatic idea, but he was still respectful of what it represented to Harry. Harry's opinion of him rose. You could generally judge a man by the small things, and Malfoy, unexpectedly, was gracious in small things as well as big ones.  
  
Harry was disconcerted to find himself distracted from his memories by Malfoy's wide grey eyes and the way they lost themselves in thought when Malfoy tried, tried so hard, to understand.  
  
"I still don't know what happened when you killed... _him_," Malfoy was saying now. He sounded embarrassed and hesitated before he asked: "Would you mind terribly, telling me?"  
  
No, Harry didn't mind telling Malfoy any more than he minded telling anyone. In fact, he couldn't remember when he had last had an audience as captive, as the ironic phrase went, as Malfoy. An audience that was so attentive and tried so hard.  
  
"The only thing that could destroy Voldemort," he said, closing his eyes again to see it all more clearly inside his head, "was love. You know of the prophecy?"  
  
"Yes." It was only a breath.  
  
"Neville and I. It could have been either of us. Voldemort chose me, the halfblood, but according to the prophecy, it _could_ just as well have been Neville. And this was how Voldemort would have to be destroyed. By both of us. Mainly by me, being the one Voldemort had chosen, but with the ready assistance of Neville. We both hated Voldemort for what he had done to us, and to our parents, directly or indirectly, but we had to shut out our hatred and focus on our love. The love we felt for our parents, the love we had ever felt for anyone. We were trained by Dumbledore and Lupin… trained to shut out, concentrate, focus, direct. Voldemort didn't expect it. He was so powerful, so knowledgeable; he had so many tricks and weapons. But love was the one thing he never knew anything about. He loved power, but he had never felt love for another human being, and he had always underestimated the power and force of that kind of love. So, in the end, we overpowered him. His wand exploded when he died. It burst into flame, green and red and violet flames... they went out and there were only sparks that fell to the ground. He looked me in the eyes as he died. I _saw_ him die. I really saw life leave him – he looked me in the eyes and his were burning, red, like they always did, and then the light in them went out… just like that. And I tasted metal, like blood. I went cold and I was so tired... my wand was so heavy I couldn't hold it any more... I dropped it and then I passed out."  
  
He hadn't realised he was crying, but his face was wet when Malfoy nudged his arm and handed him a glass. He hadn't realised he was shaking so violently, either. The bitter potion burned his throat and he had to lie down on the bed. So tired, but his head too clear. Drugs, he wanted drugs to make everything hazy; he wanted to sleep, he wanted to die.  
  
He curled up on the bed, shivering with cold, helplessly hugging himself. Too tired to be surprised by the sudden warmth along his back and the back of his thighs, an arm coming round him to hold him.  
  
Draco Malfoy had climbed into his bed and spooned up with him, making his body fit snugly with his own. Harry had had many surprises today. He simply let this one wash over him, accepted the warmth of another human body and gratefully sank into deep sleep. 


	5. Part 5

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS

Part 5

Harry woke up and didn't want to, and he also didn't know where he was. His mouth was dry and his head ached, the slanting light suggested it was afternoon, and someone was there in bed with him.

Not an uncommon situation. It happened far too often, and at times Harry believed this was what the rest of his life was going to be like: one endless string of grey mornings, grey afternoons, or black dusty nights where he woke up in a strange bed, in a strange room, with a stranger. Sand under his eyelids, his tongue like a dead furry animal in his mouth and his body screaming to be replenished, but not with food.

This time, something was different. His relationships with strangers weren't usually of the warm and tender kind. They never held him. He never held them. They grabbed what they wanted from each other with rough hands and rough tongues and hard thrusts, and then fell into a stupour. This stranger did hold him. The arm across Harry's waist was pale and the hairs on it very blond, and the hand that rested flat against his chest with the palm over his heart felt oddly protective. He lay still for another moment, thinking how strange it was that his heart was beating, warm and alive, under another man's hand. He found pleasure in the thought.

Memory was returning. He was aware now that the arm and hand belonged to Draco Malfoy, the last person on earth he would have expected to wake up with. Not a person he'd have expected to be protective of him, either.

Malfoy stirred behind him. The calm, even breathing was interrupted by a gasp, surprised or embarrassed or both. The arm and the hand were hastily removed from Harry's body.

"I'm sorry," said Malfoy, sleepy and confused, behind Harry.

Harry had to smile to himself. It wasn't a bad feeling, wanting to smile. He could almost hear Malfoy blush; blood rushing up to the white skin in a whisper. Warmth stirred in his body.

"You were so cold," Malfoy mumbled, needing to find excuses.

He was out of bed now; retreated across the room to a safe distance. Harry slowly sat up.

"And miserable," he said. "Thanks, Malfoy."

He tried to meet Malfoy's eyes but Malfoy wouldn't let him. Yes, definitely a blush. Well, his skin was made for it. Harry had no idea how many times he had seen Malfoy blush at school, but then it had nearly always been in anger.

"How are you feeling?" Malfoy was being businesslike now, determined to show only a neutral concern, a mediwizard merely taking care of a patient.

"A bit nauseous. I wouldn't mind some more of that miracle potion before I start to feel really sick again."

Malfoy administered the potion without comment, and then settled on the chair again, still turned back to front, as if he needed a shield between himself and Harry.

"Let's go back to your story," he said, still the mediwizard. "Like descent into Hell, you said. Tell me about that."

Harry was reluctant to leave his unexpected, warm state of mind and plunge himself into the fear, anger and despair that had dominated the period of time directly following the defeat of Voldemort.

"Do you mean it didn't happen at once?" Malfoy asked. "That it was a gradual process?"

Harry sighed and resigned himself to being Malfoy's patient. After all, he had agreed to tell his story.

"Yes," he said. "After I'd been released from St Mungo's that first time…"

It had been a confusing time. Harry was relieved that Voldemort was defeated, dead and destroyed – how could he not be? He himself was celebrated as a hero. Everyone wanted a piece of him, reporters and ordinary people alike. They wanted to touch him, talk to him, thank him, buy him drinks, be seen with him… and he accommodated their wishes as far as he reasonably could. He continued to go to a mediwizard's clinic for regular checkups, to ensure that the dark injuries from the final battle had not done lasting damage. The wizarding world was slowly getting back on its feet, and began to rebuild itself. But Harry seemed unable to recover.

He ought to have been jubilant and radiantly happy with the freedom he had earned. He was no longer under pressure to be brave and inventive; he had done what had been required of him and he had done it well. But instead of being jubilant, he felt empty. All of the medical checkups showed normal results, but something was happening to him. It was not physical. It was a kind of slow mental deterioration that he told no one about because he was afraid to, afraid to find out what it was, for others to know, to have it confirmed.

Harry was not sure when he first noticed that his magical powers were fading, but there it was. They were fading. It was an ongoing process. The first time one of his spells failed, he brushed it aside as a slip, a glitch, a temporary after-effect. It was a complex spell, after all, and anyone could make a mistake. But he began to fail to do simpler spells, and his failures grew more frequent. He was unsure whether it was due to his wand or to his own powers, but eventually came to the conclusion that it was both. He could still do magic, but failings and success were randomly distributed and he never knew when he would fail in public. There was no doubt in his mind that this would happen. He was grateful that enough time had passed that the press had lost interest in him.

The insecurity made him aggressive and unreliable, with sudden outbursts of violence that he could not predict or control. Alcohol blurred the edges and made things less painful, but sometimes also underlined his aggressiveness. And then there was the incident with the boy in the pub, who Harry cut with a glass splinter. He had frightened himself that time – he had really wanted to kill the boy. The metallic taste of anger, hate and fear had stayed in his mouth for weeks.

They locked him in at St Mungo's rather than putting him to trial. They deemed him insane, and he guessed that was the truth. He and the world alike. The war had sown madness, and this was the harvest.

The team of mediwizards who treated him never figured out what was wrong with him. There were endless hours of talk. Various kinds of therapy were suggested, but as they all included the practice of magic, however simple, Harry flatly refused. And they didn't force him.

He hadn't really intended a suicide attempt, that time in the mediwizard's office when he had pushed his hands through the glass door. He had only tried to Apparate. But once he was there on his knees on the floor, hands shoved through the glass and badly cut, he had thought that the best, well, the only, thing he could do was to use the spikes of glass to cut his wrists open and end the whole ridiculous, unbearable situation once and for all. Before he had had the courage to do it, they had come back.

As soon as he was released from hospital, he fled to the Muggle world. He had lived there before, after all, and was familiar with it. No one knew who he was and he could start a new life. But his new life had only been an existence, not really a life. He had existed in a blur, cut through by pain at times, occasionally lit up by a rare moment of beauty. The days had dragged on, and he had only been waiting for something to happen.

It was time for supper, and Potter was exhausted. Draco ordered food, provided Potter with potions and left him for the evening.

He went back to his own room and let Hedwig out of her cage. She had been restless and irritable ever since Draco had brought Potter to The Leaky Cauldron, as if she could sense his presence but not identify the feeling.

"I'm sending you off to Hogwarts," Draco told her, running a hand down her snow-white back. "To Lupin. And please make him understand I want an immediate reply. Here. Some food before you go. And here's the letter."

He tied it to her leg, watched her devour the food and the owl treats, and then opened the window for her. She disappeared in the dusk like a ghost.

_She will leave me now,_ he thought. _Now that Potter is back_.

When Harry had left the wizarding world she had been bewildered and lost, and as Draco's own owl had never returned from one of his journeys during the war, he had taken her in. Soothed her, talked to her, coaxed her to eat.. She had settled down well with him after an initial period of what looked like grieving, but she had never grown as fond of him as he of her.

He realised now, with a clarity that made him blush, that he had wanted to keep her because she was part of who Potter was. Potter himself was gone, but by keeping Hedwig Draco had kept a tiny piece of him.

_Sentimental bastard_, he said to himself, still blushing.

He refused to analyse what else his actions might imply.

Lupin opened his window to Hedwig in the bleak sunlight next morning. She was tired, and he tried to send her off to the Owlery as soon as he had retrieved the letter, but she refused to leave.

When Lupin unfolded the piece of parchment and saw Draco's strong signature with an impatient flourish at the end, he said: "Demanded a reply by returning mail, did he?" Hedwig looked steadily at him.

"Can you do it?" he asked.

She hooted reproachfully. Of course she could; what did he take her for – a common screech owl?

"You know what?" he said. "You don't have to go back. I'll go there myself, now – I'll Apparate, and I'll take them both back here. You'll see them again very soon – both Draco and Harry."

He stroked her breast feathers with a finger and smiled at her. Mollified, she flew off to the Owlery, and Lupin read the note.

_Lupin,_

It's both better and worse than we thought. Obviously, I can't tell you everything in a note, but Potter is willing to go back. There are complications, however: he is ill and it seems he cannot travel by magical means. I think it may be possible for him to travel by Portkey, but then you will either have to come here yourself, find a way to provide me with a Portkey, or have me authorised to create one. My preference would be to have you here in person. Please advise.

_Yours,_

_D. Malfoy_

Lupin tried to decide whether this was to be regarded as good or bad news. Then he took a deep breath, collected a few items, put on his travelling cloak and set out for Hogsmeade.


	6. Part 6

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS

Part 6

Remus Lupin Apparated into the empty bar of The Leaky Cauldron at a quarter past midnight. A tired wizard was wiping sticky tables with a dishtowel and an equally tired-looking broom was sweeping the floor.

"Mr Malfoy's in room 17," the wizard answered to Lupin's question, and Lupin climbed the stairs.

Draco Malfoy was paler than usual in the candlelight, and Lupin wondered whether this had been too much to ask of the boy. He had long sensed that there were unresolved issues between Draco and Harry, perhaps issues that neither of them was aware of, and he had deemed this a good opportunity for some of the issues to at least surface, if not get resolution. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps it had all been too much for a young man like Draco, who was still battling his own grief and his own issues with abandonment, disillusionment and the death of ideals.

"You've done a marvellous job, Draco," Lupin said warmly when he had heard Draco's story. "You can rest now, and I'll take over from here. Go home if you want."

Draco made a small, involuntary gesture of protest, but immediately suppressed it. It wasn't his habit to show his feelings. Lupin gave him a questioning look.

"You don't want me to take over? From your letter, I thought…"

"I only said I wanted help," said Draco hotly. "I want to… I… this is _interesting_." He paused and frowned, trying to analyse and explain his statement. "I had never known you could lose your magic," he continued in a calmer voice. "I'd like to… to follow Potter's case." He swallowed. It was clear to Lupin that this was much more personal to the boy than he wanted to let on. "How _can_ anyone lose their magic? There was a connection between Potter and _him_… Voldemort. Is it because he died? Were Potter's powers destroyed because _his_ were?"

It was simultaneously a question and a plea. Harry's predicament interested Draco both as a scientific problem and on a more basic, human level. How did the connection between Potter and Voldemort work? And was it a fact that anyone could lose their magic?

Lupin shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I've never heard of anyone losing their magic before. We need to do some research into this, and I will be very glad of your help. Here's the plan: We take Harry back to hospital at Hogwarts. He needs rest, not publicity, so I've requested a private room for him there and asked the staff to keep his presence quiet for the time being. We can't keep his return a secret for ever, of course, but we can at least buy him some time to get treatment for his drug addiction. And in the meantime, we research loss of magic."

Draco nodded, relieved at being included in the plans but trying not to show it.

"I'll do whatever I can," he said.

Draco had preferred to Apparate to Hogsmeade, but Harry and Lupin travelled by Portkey (a charmed copy of _The Daily Prophet_). They landed in the Matron's dark, empty office in the Hogwarts hospital wing, groaning as they hit the stone-flagged floor. The smell that met them was so familiar that Harry laughed, despite being dizzy and nauseous from the unpleasant journey. Not that it was funny, really, but the smell made things come back to him instantly; things he had no idea he still remembered: Madam Pomfrey scolding him for being back at the hospital wing yet again... The complete, satisfying exhaustion after a tough Quidditch match... The ringing echo of the Weasley twins laughing…Peeves emptying inkwells over people's heads… The eerie, lamplike eyes of Mrs Norris in a dark corridor… Professor Vector's eternally squeaky shoes...

After a few seconds he had identified the smell. It was Skele-Gro.

Lupin took Harry to his room. It was small, with a high ceiling and two high, narrow windows, and instead of a hospital bed there was a curtained four-poster. And on the window seat…

Hedwig was across the room in a white flash. She perched on Harry's shoulder and nibbled his earlobe affectionately, making soft little noises. Lupin sensed that Harry couldn't fight his tears much longer and didn't want anyone to see them, so he mumbled a goodnight and discreetly left the room.

He hesitated outside the closed door, but then raised his wand and locked the door securely.

Draco could have got a carriage back to Hogwarts from Hogsmeade, but decided to walk. He needed air and he needed to think, and there was no longer any risk of being attacked in the dark.

He took in the clean night air in deep breaths, trying to clear his mind. Potter was back at Hogwarts, well and good. And the inevitable centre of attention again, just like he'd always been. All through their school years, this had annoyed Draco endlessly, although he was as guilty as anyone else – his own attention had been directed at Potter from the moment he met him. It still was, but this time he felt no resentment. On the contrary – it was strangely comforting to have Potter back. As if the wizarding world needed something to focus on, something at its centre.

_I'm exaggerating, as always_, Draco thought, and suddenly he was in a much lighter frame of mind. He ought to have been tired, but he didn't feel it. He walked the rest of the way to Hogwarts on light feet and enjoyed the dark, listening to the thousand little noises of secret creatures living their secret lives.

Draco went to see Potter in the morning. The room was light and airy, a window was open and Potter was smiling when Draco closed the door behind him. He looked very much better than he had a mere couple of days back, when Draco had dragged him out of that Muggle bar.

"Hello, Malfoy. Look who's here." He held up his arm, where Hedwig was perched, looking very pleased.

Intense sadness and powerful joy mingled in Draco's chest and made it impossible for him to speak. No one had ever made him feel as strongly as Potter had. Perhaps he had missed it. Perhaps this was why he was glad to have Potter back.

He went over to the window and looked out to avoid letting Potter see his face.

"Thanks, Malfoy," Potter said softly behind him.

"For what?" Draco said without turning around, his voice shaky.

"For taking me back here. For being so bloody decent about the whole thing." He paused. "Lupin told me you'd taken care of Hedwig. Thanks for that, too."

Draco turned and looked at the too-thin and at the moment very earnest young man with the intense green eyes.

"She missed you," he said in a low voice. _And so did I._

Potter looked at him very steadily. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it again and nodded. Draco looked back. It occurred to him that he was looking for something in Potter's eyes, something he hoped to find there, and that he always had. He wasn't sure what.

In the corridor, Draco met Lupin. He had a busy air about him and asked Draco to come back to his office.

"Would you mind going back to London again today?" he asked.

Draco shook his head.

"Good. I have a task for you." He handed Draco a narrow box. "This."

Draco set off for Hogsmeade directly after breakfast. He Apparated into Diagon Alley and went straight to Ollivanders, Makers of Fine Wands, where the atmosphere always sent a thrill down his spine. It still did.

Draco pushed the narrow box across the counter towards Mr Ollivander himself, and the old man's wrinkled, curious face and moon-like eyes lit up when he opened the lid and saw what was in it.

"Ah!" he said with deep satisfaction. "You know, Mr Malfoy, that I proudly claim to remember every wand I have ever sold, and this one is certainly no exception. How could I _not _remember it? Little Harry Potter, eleven years old. His nose barely reached above the counter, and he had no real idea of what he had come in here to do. Those Muggles he grew up with – pfui!" If Mr Ollivander had been less of a gentleman, he would have spat on the wood floor. "Tiny he was, yes, the scrawniest little boy, but I have learnt never to judge a wizard by his size. This boy had already done great deeds, and I knew there were others in store for him – the wand chooses the wizard, as you well know, and this wand was destined for great things."

Mr Ollivander's long, wrinkled fingers deftly lifted the wand out of its case, and he held it up against the light and peered at it. Then his gaze abruptly moved from the wand to Draco, who was watching him nervously.

"Well, my young friend? Oh, don't think I don't remember. I do, you see – I remember everything that is worth remembering. You came in here the very same day the Potter boy got his wand, to get yourself a new wand for school – a real wand, not a children's one. Black walnut, unicorn hair, eleven and a half inches. Is it still in your possession? Has it served you well?"

"Yes and yes," said Draco, nerves making him impatient. He didn't like to be reminded of who he had been all those years ago, either of the boisterous brat with a too-high opinion of himself, or the loud-mouthed teenager whose bragging and brawling covered up all kinds of unworthy, undignified emotions. Envy, insecurity, fear... He was nervous, too, to hear Mr Ollivander's verdict on Potter's wand.

But Mr Ollivander was ramblingly reminiscing now, delighted with his own excellent memory, and there was no stopping him.

"You couldn't get him out of your mind, could you? Young Malfoy, intrigued by little Potter! You kept running to the window to see if you could get a glimpse of him in the street, until you were reprimanded by Lucius (rest his soul)."

Draco winced at the mention of his father's name, and Mr Ollivander nodded wisely.

"The new wand wasn't quite to your father's liking, either, was it? He was disappointed that it wasn't ebony and dragon heartstring." He lifted a hand to stop Draco's protest."Ah, yes. Hurt pride. Never goes down well with the Malfoys." Mr Ollivander wouldn't let him off the hook. He seemed to enjoy the situation thoroughly. "But if you excuse my saying so, young Malfoy, your father didn't always appreciate the finer points in life. He went for the more immediately impressive. He didn't see what I know, that walnut and unicorn hair is an exquisite combination, complex and unpredictable, very interesting indeed. And as far as I can see, you have lived up to the expectations."

Draco's face was wooden. He did _not_ want to listen to this.

Mr Ollivander continued, unperturbed: "You never got along very well with Potter, did you? Ran in both families, I'd say. Your father never could abide James Potter. Well, well. History repeats itself – and then decides to take an unexpected leap!" He illustrated this with a sweep of his hand and laughed wheezily.

Draco's skin crawled. He said hastily, to stop Ollivander from elaborating on this:

"Things are different now. And I would very much like to hear your expert opinion of Potter's wand, if you don't mind."

Mr Ollivander's gaze returned to the wand he was holding, and a sudden look of sadness touched his face.

"It's curious…" he said slowly. "Yes. Very curious."

He was silent for a long time, thoughtfully weighing the wand in his hand. Draco felt impatience creep up his legs like cold.

"Excuse me, but _what's_ curious?"

Ollivander started and said, oddly: "History repeats itself, yes, yes. Even words." He returned the wand to its box.

"I would have said… if I hadn't known… had it been an unknown wand, and an unknown wizard, I would have said that the owner of this wand is dead. The wand certainly is, you see. The power, the magic qualities have left it. But as far as I have been informed, only the owner of the _twin_ of this wand is dead." He turned his moon-like eyes to Draco again. "Is this not correct? I hope you have not come to tell me that Harry Potter is dead?"

"No," said Draco in a low voice. "No, he is not dead. We don't know what has happened to him."

"Curious," Mr Ollivander mumbled again. "Very curious."


	7. Part 7

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS

Part 7  
  
"If Mr Ollivander hadn't known that this is Potter's wand, and that Potter is alive, he'd have said that the owner of this wand was dead," Draco explained to a mystified and worried Lupin. "He says the wand is dead. I've tried to use it, and nothing happens when I do. Nothing at all. It really does feel... dead."  
  
Lupin leant back in his chair, frowning.  
  
"Could it be..." He stalled and thought. "Do you think... is it possible that the whole thing is due to a faulty wand? A misunderstanding? That Harry really hasn't lost his magic at all – he only _thinks_ he has, because the wand doesn't work?"  
  
Draco shook his head.  
  
"No. He tried my wand, in London. Nothing. I know that really weird things can happen if you use someone else's wand, but here... no. Nothing. And he says he's tried other things, too, like Apparating. No use. Nothing."  
  
"Of course," Lupin muttered. "How stupid of me to think even for a second that he hadn't tried everything possible."  
  
"Mr Ollivander also says that wands normally keep functioning even when their owners die, but it's not uncommon for very powerful wizards' wands to die with their owners."  
  
Possibly, Dumbledore's wand had died with him. There was no way of finding out now, as the old wizard had wanted his wand buried with him.  
  
Lupin straightened up.  
  
"I don't think we'll get much further tonight," he said. "Thanks for finding this out, Draco."  
  
They rose, and Draco asked: "What now?"  
  
"I'm going to London tomorrow. I'll probably stay until it's time for my full moon treatment. I've left Harry in Matron's very capable hands, and she has requested the help of someone she knows at St Mungo's – a very skilled healer, she says." He gave Draco a reassuring smile. "If you need me, I'll be at the Armando Dippet Memorial Library. And if you could get started at the library here at Hogwarts...?"  
  
Draco nodded, then asked hesitantly: "Can I... Is Potter allowed to have visitors?"  
  
"Of course he is, if he wants to." Lupin smiled again. "And I think he does."  
  
Draco's heart leapt in his chest but his face did not register anything at all. He said good night to Lupin and quietly went back to his room.

Draco had never studied as industriously in his life. He spent entire days in the library, searching, reading, taking notes. Madam Pince, who had not been informed about Potter's return but thought this was an academic research project, was helpful and supportive in a cool, professional manner that Draco appreciated.  
  
He missed Lupin, who he had got to know very well in the later stages and aftermath of the war and grown to like very much. He hadn't realised until now how much he had also come to trust and depend on him. Lupin was in equal measure a friend, a stand-in parent and a mentor.  
  
Draco let yet another heavy volume land with a thud on the dark wood table in front of him and felt the familiar smell of dust and dry, old leather rise from the pages when he opened it. Sunlight flowed in through the high windows and golden dust whirled and danced in the slanting rays. Draco sighed. This book probably didn't contain anything more informative or useful than any of the others he had read so far.  
  
He decided to go AWOL for the afternoon, closed the book again and went outside.  
  
The lake was a dark blue under the autumn sky; its surface rippling in the wind as if it was shuddering. Draco walked briskly, trying to clear his mind. He turned to glance up at the castle, and his eyes wandered automatically to Potter's window in the hospital wing.  
  
He had been to see Potter this morning, a brief visit where nothing much was said. It had been one of many, and Potter always seemed pleased to see him, but then he was probably pleased with anything that broke the monotony of his days.  
  
Potter looked much better already. He had lost some of that haunted, pained look and some of the terrible thestral-like thinness.  
  
Draco wondered what kept him going. Did he still have hope? What was he thinking about? What did he think of Draco?  
  
Draco shook himself. It didn't really matter what Potter thought about him. He was only going to assist with solving the mystery, and then he would leave and probably never see Potter again, at least not for a very long time.  
  
He shivered suddenly in the cold breeze and wondered if the sun had been hidden by a cloud, but when he looked up at the sky, it was as blue and cloudless as before.  
  
The window seat in his room was Harry's favourite spot. He had an excellent view and he could watch people pass by below him, but no one could see _him_ unless they were actually in the room. Idiotically enough, he felt safe there.  
  
Safe!  
  
Nothing was more secure here than anywhere else; there were no guarantees for anything anywhere. Harry wondered what would happen when word spread that he had lost his magic. Perhaps he would have to leave the wizarding world.  
  
He closed his eyes and tried to push the tremendous irony of the situation out of his head. For more than a year, he had done his best to leave all this behind. Leave _everything_ behind, everything that was essentially _him_, and only exist in a haze where nothing could be seen, heard or felt very clearly. And then he had stupidly allowed himself to be shaken out of the stupor, allowed himself to feel the pain he had been trying to escape, allowed himself to be taken back to what he had tried to forget – perhaps only to be exiled again.  
  
He didn't even want to think of what would happen to him then.  
  
The only thing he could do was to exist in the moment, live minute by minute, like he had done in Muggle London. There was no past; there was no future. There was only the present moment, and it would soon be gone. Nothing mattered very much.  
  
This was easy to do when you were on drugs. Sober, it was very nearly impossible.  
  
Harry was being treated with potions, infusions and spells, and while his physical state had improved rapidly, his mind had not healed quite as successfully. The wall of glass separating him from the world was slipping, sliding, falling away at times. Always returning again, but slipping more frequently. This scared him. It allowed things to enter, things he had managed to shut out before. Now he was forced to feel and experience, to smell and hear and see – forced to participate in a world he had no desire to participate in because it was simply too painful. He didn't want to invest himself, his energy and emotions, in something that might be taken away from him again at any moment.  
  
Harry looked out at the sloping orchard below his window. The grass was dotted with overripe, red and yellow apples that had fallen from the trees. A blackbird was hopping around in the grass, occasionally attacking a rotting apple, pecking at it with deep satisfaction. Suddenly it was as if the bird was inside Harry's head, pecking at his eyes with its sharp beak; his eyes were rotting, his entire being was rotting, decaying, falling apart… He covered his eyes with his hands, pressed his palms against them, to stop the pain, the sharp beak, the decay – stop everything, just stop.  
  
He was relieved when the glass wall slid back into place and he could hide again. The things that slipped past the wall were so intense, too intense. He didn't want them. He didn't know what to do with them.  
  
The healer from St Mungo's had long, daily conversations with Harry, but didn't make much progress.  
  
"He is very difficult to get to know," she said to Lupin one evening when they had dinner together. "I can't get close to him. He replies to all my questions and he is always polite, but when I ask him to tell me about his background, his thoughts, his feelings, his reactions… he just slips away. He moves sideways just that little bit that makes it impossible for me to see, to catch the important things. There is so much pain in him – but he simply will not let me get to the core of it. It's _too_ painful, perhaps. It scares him. The mere thought of having to face his own pain frightens him."  
  
Lupin, weak and tired after the full moon, pushed his plate aside and wanted desperately to go to bed and sleep for a decade. He loved Harry very much, and he wanted nothing more than to see Harry get well, be happy, regain his magic and his confidence and come back to life. But he was so tired, and they didn't seem to make any progress at all. Harry had gained a few pounds, but that was the only visible result of their work so far.  
  
After dinner, Lupin went to Harry's room to say goodnight. The boy was sitting on the window seat with Hedwig on his shoulder, and his face lit up in a warm smile when he saw who his visitor was. The smile was replaced with an anxious frown.  
  
"You look tired," he said. "Are you well?"  
  
"Oh, yes, it's nothing. It's only normal after a full moon." Lupin sat down on the chair by the desk. "How are you? You look better."  
  
"I don't know," Harry said and turned his face towards the window. The moon was out. It was only a bright, inverted comma now against the velvet sky. "I feel much better physically. But…"  
  
"But what?"  
  
"I can't stop thinking," Harry whispered.  
  
"Why should you stop thinking?"  
  
"I can't stand it!" The boy's voice rose abruptly to a half-hysterical peak and broke off. "I don't want to think. It's too... it's too awful."  
  
"What awful things are you thinking about, Harry?"  
  
"What do you think?" Harry was looking straight at him now with an accusatory scowl, an accusatory edge to his voice. He felt attacked, so he wanted to attack. "About the war, about all the people who died, about... about... oh god. I can't do this. I can't stop. It's in my head all the time, like a film I can't switch off..."  
  
Lupin was confused for a moment by the Muggle reference. He looked at Harry, who was hugging his knees and staring blindly out of the window. Hedwig left his shoulder, huffed by being ignored, and settled on the other window seat.  
  
Harry buried his head in his hands.  
  
"I failed them," he muttered into his palms.  
  
Lupin stared at the back of the boy's bent head, thoughts racing through his brain, inconsistent, disjointed. Tousled black hair… soft but unruly. Like his personality. James, Harry... so alike, so different. Everything is connected; everything has consequences. Cause and effect, spreading like ripples…  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
"I failed them."  
  
Lupin started, wide awake now. He asked stupidly:  
  
"Who?"  
  
The boy was wailing. He wasn't really crying; he was making a noise to try to shut out his own thoughts.  
  
"No, no..." he moaned.  
  
Lupin felt they had suddenly, unexpectedly, touched the core of Harry's depression. He shivered in fear, awe and anticipation as he realised he was finally, finally beginning to understand what this was all about. He rose from the chair but didn't dare touch the boy's shoulder.  
  
"Harry," he said firmly. "You saved us from one of the worst tyrants in history. You didn't fail us. You didn't fail _the world_, that much is obvious."  
  
Harry made a noise like a groan. Lupin continued, gently probing, instinctively groping his way into Harry's darkness:  
  
"This is more personal, isn't it?" There was no reply. "You failed someone on a personal level? Someone close to you?"  
  
The boy was still wailing, still hiding his face, shaking his head no no no, don't go there, don't touch me, don't make me hurt. Lupin wondered if anyone or anything could make Harry hurt more than he already did.  
  
"_Who did you fail?_"  
  
Harry looked up, and the pain in his face made Lupin gasp. In empathy, in recognition... He knew this pain, or a similar one. It was related to his illness, his own personal hell. His illness transformed him into something so far from his real personality it was impossible to grasp. It turned him into a mindless creature that injured, maimed and killed by instinct. It turned him into a monster; he became destruction itself. Lupin the wolf committed acts that Remus the human being couldn't conceive of.  
  
"Remus, there are too many," Harry whispered. "Too many I couldn't save." He swallowed and tried to steady his voice. "All my life people have died around me, because of who I am. People I loved. My parents, Sirius... and that was only the beginning. People I barely knew died too, people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time... like Cedric Diggory. He died because he was with me; _only_ because of that. And take a look around, Remus. Who's left that I ever cared about? You. Neville. Tonks. A few more. But all the others – all the ones I couldn't save...! Dumbledore! Hermione! Hagrid! Ron, Ginny, Bill, Mr Weasley...!"  
  
His voice had risen to a furious shout, and each name was accompanied by a vicious kick of his boot against the wall.  
  
"Harry – "  
  
"They would all be here it it weren't for me! They're all dead _because of me_!"  
  
Lupin took the frantic boy by the shoulders and shook him, forced Harry to look him in the eye.  
  
"No, Harry, you're wrong. You know you are. I remember," and he smiled a little, "I remember the teenage boy I taught how to produce a Patronus. He was insecure, perhaps, and scared, but also focussed and determined and eager to do the right thing, because he _knew_ it was the right thing. You never lost sight of what was the right thing, Harry."  
  
Harry stared at him in disbelief, still panting after his outburst.  
  
"Remus, are you _stupid_? That boy... that boy disappeared ages ago. Sometimes I don't think he ever existed. I never knew him. I'm a hundred years old."  
  
"No, Harry, he hasn't disappeared. You've always known what is the right thing to do, and you've done it. What you are saying now is... madness. You're mistaken on one very vital point."  
  
"What," Harry said, not wanting to listen, not ready to believe anything he heard.  
  
Lupin took a deep breath: "Many of those we loved and lived for are dead, yes. That's what war does – it destroys lives, and not only for those who are killed. War is cruel and inhuman, and yet it has always been part of human history. Yes, all these people are dead. Your closest friends are gone, as are mine – _but not because of you_. _You_ didn't start the war. It began long before you were born. You became involved, and you didn't have much choice in the matter, but whatever choices you _did_ make, you made to save us. Not to save yourself but to save others; to save what is good and right in the world. And – listen to me now, Harry. Are you listening? – you did save us. All these people who died – they didn't die because of _you_. They died because of _him_."  
  
Harry stared at the older man, still breathing fast. He couldn't quite take in the words, but some of Lupin's speech was sinking in. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again... his gaze began to wander around the room... he tried to say something that drifted away and turned into a shuddering sigh. No, he couldn't accept this view of things. Lupin was right, in a way, but still so horribly wrong.  
  
"Ron," Harry said and his voice was shaking, "I should at least have saved Ron. I _could_ have, and I failed. He was right there next to me, and Voldemort... Voldemort..."  
  
"Yes," Lupin said, "I was there, too; don't forget that. I saw it. What Voldemort did, and what you did. Believe me, Harry, you did everything you could. No one could ever have reacted fast enough. And Ron was there by his own choice. He knew the risks."  
  
Harry was crying now, at last. "I had to survive," he moaned. "I had to survive. It was either me or Voldemort, and I had to survive to kill him."  
  
Guilt is a difficult emotion to handle, hard to dispel by reasoning, however unfounded it is. And so much had been at stake for Harry, so much had been lost, that for him, on a personal level, there was no great difference between victory and defeat. Lupin did the only reasonable thing, the only _human_ thing, and took the boy in his arms.  
  
"You would have died for them, for us," Lupin mumbled above Harry's head. "We all know that. You've risked your life more times than anyone can count. You had to survive, you did survive, and it's time you stopped feeling guilty for being alive."  
  
All the coiled-spring tension suddenly went out of the boy. He collapsed heavily against Lupin's shoulder, like a puppet when the puppeteer lets go of the strings.  
  
Lupin held him. 


	8. Part 8

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS

Part 8

Draco Malfoy came to visit almost every day; short visits, usually no more than five minutes. He never really sat down, only half-sat on the desk corner, underlining the brevity of his stay.

Harry looked forward to the visits so much he was embarrassed, ashamed to admit it to himself. They were the best part of his day. He thought of them when he woke up in the mornings, hoping Malfoy wouldn't come until the afternoon or evening, giving Harry something to look forward to all day.

He thought of the visits so much it made him nervous, looking forward to them before they happened and thinking about every word and every gesture when they were over. His nerves sometimes made him edgy and jittery when Malfoy arrived, because it was so important, too important. But paradoxically, these were the only times he ever really relaxed. Talking to Malfoy was so different from talking to a healer or former teacher – Malfoy was a peer, and he never probed or tried to pry information out of Hary; he just came round for a chat. And as time went on, Harry began to believe, _dared_ to believe, that Malfoy came to see him not only from politeness but because he enjoyed it as much as Harry did.

xxx

For once, Draco allowed himself to sit down. He was very tired, and irritable for some reason he didn't know. Conversation was slow; unusually, they couldn't seem to find anything to talk about. After a long silence, when Draco thought he should just get up and leave, Potter caught his gaze and held it.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes," said Draco before he'd had time to think, and regretted it immediately. He knew from the look in Potter's eyes that it wasn't going to be a nice little question about his day, or about the weather.

"In London, I told you my story," Potter said. "I'd like to hear yours."

Draco blanched. This definitely wasn't in the bargain. He hadn't even been aware there was a bargain.

"You know everything about me, and I hardly know anything at all about you," Potter went on. "I have no idea what happened to you after Voldemort died."

Draco winced at the name, still winced, and hated himself for it.

"Nothing much," he said curtly. "There was a lot of cleaning up to do. I helped with that."

His voice was firm, making it clear that he wished no further discussion on this topic. He could feel Potter's eyes on him but he didn't look back.

"I'd like to say something, Malfoy."

Draco shrugged. "I'm sure you'll say it even without my permission. Go ahead."

"In London, I told you about some of the worst things… the most painful, horrible, humiliating things that have ever happened to me. I wasn't happy about telling you. I _hated_ doing it, and perhaps especially because it was you – I mean, we never liked each other much and all that. But after… after I'd told you… I felt better. It was good to tell someone. And I…" He hesitated, and Draco glanced at him. He looked embarrassed and was rubbing at the fabric of the bedspread with a finger. "I found I don't dislike you any more. I don't. At all. I'm even _glad_ it was you." He paused. "I'd expected you to… well, laugh at me, or despise me, or something, and instead you were thoroughly decent. Now you're here, you're coming to see me almost every day, and I understand that you're doing a lot of work on my part. I just thought I could…"

A blush was creeping up his neck. He looked up and met Draco's eyes, and his face showed a strange mix of emotions – defiance, embarrassment, genuine concern… and perhaps relief. There was a waterfall inside Draco's head; it roared so loudly he couldn't hear much else. His exhaustion was gone. This was the strangest thing ever – this whole thing with Potter. Here was Harry Potter, telling him he _liked_ him, Draco Malfoy, and was glad he had confided in him…? It was too absurd to be happening. Draco suddenly wanted to laugh but was afraid he was going to cry if he did.

"I don't mean you have to tell me something just because I told you," Potter said hastily. "What I meant was… I felt so much better having told you, so much better when someone _knew_, and… I'm sorry, Malfoy, but it seems to me you need to talk to someone, too."

"Really? And I assume that someone would be you?" Draco said, his voice holding a coldness and hostility he didn't feel. He just needed to defend himself. It wasn't the kind of attack he was used to and he wasn't sure how to deal with it.

Potter was blushing and looked down at his fingertip that was still aimlessly rubbing at the bedspread. "No, it doesn't have to be me," he mumbled. "I just… well, now I've said it."

Draco took a deep breath. The time after the final defeat of Voldemort had been so filled with horror that he had tried to forget it, push it far down into the dungeons of memory and never allow it to reach daylight again. He hadn't even considered wanting to talk to anyone about it, ever – talking would inevitably mean having to relive the events, and there was nothing he wanted less. He realised that one of the reasons why he felt so relaxed with Lupin, and so close to him, was the fact that Lupin had seen the same things he had seen, seen the horrors and lived through them just the same as he. They were familiar with an important part of each other's history, one that had changed their lives, and the shared memories made explanations superfluous and unnecessary.

But there was also a certain appeal in telling Potter. If Draco scrutinised his own motives, part of him was flattered that Potter had been observing him, was interested in him and willing to try to help. Draco was far from convinced that talking in general would do any good, but talking to _Potter_ might. He had reached a certain level of intimacy with Potter, and it was addictive. He would like to deepen it if he could.

"What is it you want to know," he said in a low voice, frightened now.

Potter looked up again, his face alight with interest.

"Anything. Everything." He blushed again at his own eagerness. "Anything you want to tell me."

Draco sat down on the chair by the desk, took another deep breath and closed his eyes. Then he braced himself and opened the door to the dungeons, where horrible memories dwelled in the dark like unspeakable monsters.

xxx

Draco's stay at St Mungo's was short, only a few days, for some less serious physical injuries from the battle. When he was released, he didn't lose any time. He joined the rest of the Order, and anyone else who was reliable and strong enough, and began the cleaning up, the reconstruction. Buildings, systems, infrastructure, people's minds – everything had to be healed, cleaned, restored. They waded through the debris and had to use both magic and manpower to get their work done.

The Order and the remaining Aurors hunted down a few Death Eaters, holed up like the miserable rats they were, and put them in Azkaban. There were few left – many had been killed or caught, and many had committed suicide after Voldemort's death, when they had realised it was all over and their dream had finally, irrevocably dissolved.

Then the Aurors began to find dead bodies of Death Eaters who definitely hadn't taken their own lives. It seemed that someone, or several people, wanted their own, private revenge on the Death Eaters, and had now systematically begun to kill off everyone left. The Aurors and members of the Order had to redirect their search.

It had eventually taken them to Malfoy Manor, as one place among many others. Draco had meant to go back there at some point anyway, to see what was left for him and if he could find any traces of his parents' whereabouts. They hadn't been seen or heard of for several months.

It was a misty, sunless morning with bleak, grey light, and dew was thick in the grass. Draco had arrived early; no one else was at the meeting spot yet. He decided not to wait and headed towards the manor house. The stern, austere building lay grey and square in its lush surroundings, and Draco approached it with dread.

Even as he reached out to open the back door, he knew something horrible had happened. The door creaked ominously. It never used to. Perhaps the house-elves had deserted the place; perhaps they had followed Draco's parents to wherever they were staying.

An unfamiliar, unpleasant smell met Draco's nostrils as he entered the hallway; not strong but thick and repulsive. He nearly stumbled over something dark and round, and had to bite his tongue to stifle a scream: it was a human head.

A few steps away, apparently caught as he was about to escape, lay Walden Macnair. His head had been severed from his body and rolled all the way to the door, where Draco had nearly tripped over it. Perhaps it was meant as a message from the killers: _scum. Die the way you have lived_. Sick and trembling, Draco left the scene for the Auror squad and cautiously moved further into the dark bowels of the house. He had no wish to see what else there was to find, but he couldn't _not_ go on.

Whereever Lucius and Narcissa had been for the past few months, they had obviously decided at some point to return to Malfoy Manor. When they left this time, it would be for good, and they would never go anywhere again.

If the murderers wanted to make a point with their methods of killing, Draco wondered what they had meant to say about his parents. He found their bodies in the small sitting room, the Blue Room, next to their vulgarly luxurious bedroom. The bedroom itself had had been viciously ripped apart in what looked like an almost lustful frenzy. The bed was demolished, downy feathers from pillows and eiderdowns strewn and blown about into soft white heaps like fresh snow; the silk-panelled walls were slashed and crudely painted with large black figures and letters. The naked bodies in the Blue Room were sprawling obscenely, draped over furniture; dead white skin reflecting the blue colour of walls and brocade-clad chairs to somehow look more than dead, like grotesque wax dolls in a horror cabinet. One was on the couch and one on the thick Chinese rug on the floor. They had been stabbed and beaten, dry dull eyes staring at the ceiling with a ludicrous expression of surprise. There was blood everywhere. Floor, walls and paintings were spattered with it, rugs and cushions soaked.

Draco stood frozen, staring at his parents. The killer could simply have used a clean, efficient Avada Kedavra instead of killing them in this crude, horrible way, but it seemed he had wanted to take their dignity as well as their lives. If Draco hadn't known the colour of Lucius' hair, if he hadn't known it to be sleek and smooth and silvery blond like his own, he wouldn't have been able to make it out; it was too caked and matted with dried blood. Without a doubt, Lucius and Narcissa had deserved to die, but they were his parents and he had never wished this fate for them.

He jumped violently as Snape Apparated into the room with a loud crack. Snape took in the whole scene with a quick glance around.

"_Well_," he said thickly.

That was all. His face contorted briefly into a grimace, but Draco wasn't sure whether of grief, horror or disgust, or whether the disgust was aimed at the blood, the killers or the dead couple. Perhaps all of it. Perhaps it didn't matter. Maybe nothing did.

Draco left Snape in charge, staggered outside and vomited into a bush by the kitchen wall.

Later, Lupin found him there, still holding on to the wall and retching, cold and shocked and unable to speak coherently. Draco would never forget the look on Lupin's face – sympathy and compassion so profound that the warmth of it had leaked through to Draco's numb, dull core. His admiration for Lupin had begun much earlier, but his genuine love for the man dated from this moment.

xxx

Draco was looking down at his feet, trying to return to the present, to this pleasant room where the windows were intact, the furniture unbroken and the stoneflagged floor had no bloodstains. There was a short silence before Potter spoke.

"I had no idea…" He had to clear his throat. "Malfoy, I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. I thought _I_ had a rough deal."

Draco shrugged.

"You had," he said. "But there was a war, and most people had a rough deal. They found the killers shortly after. Teenagers, brother and sister; their parents had been tortured and killed by the Death Eaters. I went back to the Manor to clean it out, and then I sold it – I didn't want any of it; I didn't want to see it again. Then, I concentrated on helping to rebuild Hogwarts. It felt like the best thing I could do. Like I was rebuilding my own life." He stopped and shrugged. "Pathetic or pretentious, or both. Like I tried to save something that couldn't be saved, perhaps. But it felt good to do something constructive."

"You did that with the Order during the war, too," Potter said in a low voice.

"Yes… I suppose. But planning new buildings and getting procedures back in place at this old school… it was more productive. More rewarding, less abstract. Immediate results."

"And what about me?" Potter asked unexpectedly.

Draco stalled. "What about you?"

"Am I a project too?" When Draco remained silent, he said: "Is that what you're doing with me, too – trying to save something that can't be saved?"

Draco was shaken by a compassion so strong it made him furious. "Don't be a bloody idiot, Potter!" he said. "_I_ would be an idiot if I made a project out of _you_. You've always been a hopeless case."

They began to laugh the same time. Still laughing, Potter reached out and touched Draco's shoulder, squeezed it briefly and removed his hand again. Warmth tingled down Draco's arm and into his fingers. He didn't dare look up.

"Thanks, Malfoy," Potter said quietly, and his voice was warm. "Of all the surprises I've had lately, you're definitely the biggest one."

Draco looked up and met the green eyes. "Do you like surprises?" he said.

"If they're good, yeah. Then I like them a lot."

It wasn't necessary to ask the obvious counter-question. The smile and the steady gaze told Draco that Potter regarded him as a very pleasant surprise.

He smiled back. It was shaky, but it was a smile.


	9. Part 9

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title:

LIKE GLASS

Part 9

There was a knock on the door, and Neville Longbottom stood in the doorway. He looked pleased and awkward in a familiar Neville mix, and nearly stepped on his own toes trying to decide whether to come in or take a step back or stay where he was.

"Hello, Harry," he said uncertainly.

Harry rose from his chair, his mind suddenly blank, at a loss for what to say or do. He hadn't seen Neville since they had fought side by side on the battle field, surrounded by death and the stench of fear. A lifetime ago, and still the moment was constantly present. Neville held out a hand and smiled shyly when Harry took it.

"Lupin told me you were back. How are you? Are you feeling any better?"

"Yeah. Well. Yeah. At least they've cured me of the addiction to this Muggle crap. The mediwizard methods are much more effective than the Muggle ones." Harry shrugged. "But I guess you've already heard everything about it anyway."

Neville smiled again. "Everyone always hears everything about you, Harry. It's just like it's always been."

Harry made a face. "Enough about me, then. How are _you_? What are you doing these days?"

"Oh, I moved to Denmark two years ago."

"To Denmark? Why?"

Neville shrugged. "My family has a place there. At Skagen. It's beautiful – those long beaches, and the sound of the sea, and the light… the light really is fantastic. I suppose some people would say it's a lonely place, but it really isn't."

"What do you do there?"

"I have a plant nursery. I grow things." A flash of the shy smile again. "I've bought quite a bit of land, and I've built two big greenhouses – one that's visible to anyone, Muggles as well, and one that's Unplottable. I grow stuff like tomatoes and cucumbers and melons that I sell to Muggles, and in the Unplottable greenhouse I grow magical plants for mediwizard use. I'm doing quite well."

Harry didn't know what to say. He himself had stumbled around in the mist, attempting to create watertight compartments in his mind, to shut himself off from memories, realities, emotions. Neville looked cautiously happy, as if those tomatoes and mandrakes were good for his soul. Which was probably the truth.

Neville had always quietly gone his own way and was rarely admired or credited for it, but somewhere along the line his actions and choices had stopped inviting ridicule. Perhaps his choices weren't always the most magnificent or dignified ones, but they were honest and true to who he was – could anyone ever do more than that? Harry awkwardly patted Neville on the shoulder and asked him to sit down.

They talked for a while, both of them gingerly stepping around the subject that burned darkly at the back of their minds and had done so since they last saw each other. Harry wondered whether they would ever find the strength to talk about it. It was one thing to talk to a healer or tell the story to a friend – it _could_ be done, even if it was painful. But discussing it with each other, reliving the worst moment of both their lives, conscious every second of the fact that they wouldn't be here now without having shared that moment of unimaginable horror… It made them too close, so close they needed to move away from one another.

Eventually, Neville rose to leave.

"Skagen really is a lovely place," he said, as if Harry had ever doubted it. "You must come and visit me."

"I will," said Harry and meant it, and knew that he never would.

x

Perhaps the visit had exorcised some of Neville's demons, but it brought some of Harry's back. He felt weak and sick all afternoon, and the healer threw one look at him and cursed herself for allowing the visit.

He spent the night curled up in bed, sleepless, trying to fend off a pain that was deep and sick and blurred and difficult to pinpoint as it wasn't really physical. He would have wanted drugs to numb it, but that escape route was no longer open to him. The need for drugs had ceased to be a physical craving and was more a futile, exhausted wish for oblivion. When he finally fell asleep towards morning, it was oddly with the indirect help of Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy had come to represent all the positive that had happened lately; the return to the wizarding world, the reunion with old friends, the gradual but encouraging process of mental and physical healing. Malfoy's almost daily visits were lanterns in the dark and a wonderful relief from pressure, relaxed moments where the most real interaction with another human being took place.

Harry closed his eyes and conjured up images of Draco Malfoy on the film screen in his head. It was comforting to see the pale, blond figure shimmer, shimmer like it had done through dull, aching darkness and grey mornings… Harry curled up and hugged himself to protect the image, holding it to his chest to keep it warm. It drifted through his dreams, shifting, moving, still radiating that strange, shimmering light.

X

Draco decided to walk from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts. It was a dark and blustery evening with brief, sudden rain showers, but the air was surprisingly warm and mild. The gusts of wind caressed his face like hands.

He was tired and slightly irritable, and he knew some of the irritation was due to the fact that he hadn't had time to visit Potter for several days. His visits had quickly developed into a habit that was difficult to break.

Draco walked up the winding drive to the castle and opened the brand new front door, made of solid oak and even heavier than the old one. He looked around the dimly lit Entrance Hall. Surely it wasn't too late for a visit, even if Potter was supposed to be resting? It was only half past nine.

He had brought some bottles of good wine with him from his flat in Hogsmeade – evenings at Hogwarts could be long and lonely, and although this mostly didn't bother him, he occasionally wanted alcohol to take the edge off the loneliness.

Equipped with two of the bottles, Draco went over to the hospital wing. As he raised his hand to knock on the familiar door, it occurred to him that alcohol might be a disrespectful, cruelly ironic gift to bring as Potter was being treated for his drug addiction.

Draco lowered his hand and went to talk to Matron, who assured him Potter could have some wine and, with a shrewd look at the bottles Draco half tried to hide behind his back, gave them permission to drink under her roof. "Just don't come to me for charms to relieve your hangovers in the morning."

Potter seemed glad to see him. Draco questioningly held up the bottles.

"Wine…?"

Potter's face split in a grin. "Where did you get those?" he said. "I'm sure you're breaking a hundred rules."

"Nope. Believe it or not, I cleared it with Matron."

Potter laughed. "Draco Malfoy, honest, straightforward and law-abiding. This is truly the age of miracle and wonder."  
  
"Famous Harry Potter has spoken. Equally well-known for abiding by the rules at all times."

Glasses glittered invitingly in the candlelight and ruby red reflections danced over the scrubbed wood table.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Potter said, and Draco's heart made a skip at hearing his absence had been noticed. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

"I've had a busy couple of days," he said evasively. "Busy but boring, boring as fuck."

Potter made a face. "Don't talk to me about boring," he said. "Sitting here day in and day out is driving me mad. I know what it's for and that it's necessary and everything, but seriously, I'm clawing at the walls."

"I don't blame you," Draco said.

He knew Potter talked to the healer from St Mungo's practically every day, and that he was finally making progress after a very slow beginning. He looked much better and he was clearly feeling better, too, but so far there had been no improvement or development on the magical front. Draco could well see why Potter would be bored, sitting here day out and day in, not wanting to show himself in public, not having anywhere else to go. He had no idea how Potter filled his days. Being ill, even though getting better, and being alone here for hours or days on end with only Hedwig for company… and still managing to be nice and polite and rather cheerful when he had visitors… Draco had known Potter was strong, but strangely and perhaps ridiculously, he was more impressed by this than by Potter's confused, desperate courage in Diagon Alley.

They finished the first bottle quickly, both of them enjoying the warm, soft rush and slight dizziness of the first stage of intoxication. Potter's eyes began to sparkle and Draco knew his own face was rather pink. Halfway through the second bottle, they were laughing about old, old memories of the best use of various Zonko's products, at Potter's stories about awkward Muggles and their strange contraptions, and then at theories about what you would hear if you fed people Veritaserum and asked them about their sex life.

"Professor Flitwick!!! You remember his weakness for squeaky sugar mice?" Potter imitated Flitwick's equally squeaky voice: "_I assure you, gentlemen – you will achieve the most interesting surprise effects if you slip them into the lady's corset._"

"Corset!?" Draco choked on his wine. "Potter, where…"

"Flitwick doesn't date women whose fashion sense have got further than the turn of the last century."

Draco laughed himself into a coughing fit. "I'm pissed."

"So am I."

"Come on, let's get out of here."

"What…?"

"Just out. Get some air."

"It's raining!"

"So what? Are you made of sugar?"

Potter squeaked like one of Flitwick's mice, and they collapsed in renewed giggles.

"Right. Air."

"I'm not supposed to be seen."

"Who'd be out at this hour? – Oh, wait. I'll be back in a second."

Draco set off for his room, his path slightly meandering, causing palm to collide with stone wall several times before he was safely back in Potter's room in the hospital wing.

"Catch," he said.

He threw something at Potter and grinned at Potter's stunned face when he saw what it was.

"My Invisibility cloak…! Where did you get that?"

"Lupin kept it for you. Said it was far too valuable, financially and emotionally, to lose. And that you would want it back one day."

Potter took the cloak and let the fabric slide through his hands, cool and smooth like water. His head was bowed down to hide his face and he seemed lost in thought, or memory. After a few minutes he straightened up, looked at Draco and smiled.

"What are we waiting for? Let's go."

They raced each other down the stairs, shoving and bumping into each other, staggering and nearly falling; Draco making extra noise to disguise the fact that there were two sets of feet shuffling and thundering on the stone flags. The rain had stopped and the moon emerged among chalky blue rags of cloud, and the boys rushed through the dark grounds, stumbling and suppressing laughter. They paused, panting, in a clump of wet trees halfway between the castle and the lake.

"I'm an idiot!" Potter shouted, and eased the Invisibility cloak off his head so his face seemed to float eerily in the air.

"I heartily agree!" Draco shouted back. "I'm glad you're beginning to realise it."

He ducked for Potter's invisible swing, still laughing, exhilarated at knowing where Potter was even when he couldn't see him and at drunkenly taking this for granted.  
  
"I forgot where we are," Potter said, "I mean, we could just have muted my steps with a spell!" He caught himself. "Or – _you_ could have."

Draco grinned at him, determined not to let anything dampen this glorious feeling. "It's like being twelve again, running around the corridors at night without permission! Come on, Potter, let's go night swimming."

"Swimming!? Are you fucking mad? It must be freezing!"

But Draco wasn't listening. It was true that he was mad; he was seized by a warm, intoxicating madness that made his blood rush through his veins. The lake was dark and still and not very inviting, but Draco wanted to run out on the bridge of silvery moonlight and dance on it. The way he felt, he was sure he could, and the bridge would span to wherever he wanted to go. He undressed in a second, flinging his clothes in a heap on a rock, and dived into the moon-glittery water that swallowed him up in silky darkness.

x

Wrapped in his Invisibility cloak and in a darkness that smelled of earth and rain, Harry watched Malfoy undress. He felt disproportionately sobered by the cool night air and the earlier, momentary assumption that he could still do magic, but the whole situation seemed floating and unreal, or even surreal. He couldn't see his own body, wrapped in the cloak as it was, but Malfoy was visible. It was as if Harry could see him with more than his eyes – his mind felt him, his body certainly did. Malfoy had shimmered when he had entered that bar, and continued to shimmer in Harry's dreams long after. Now here he was, naked in the moonlight, his skin an unreal, milky white.

When he vanished into the black water, his body describing first a white arc through the dark and then for a split second a dark one against the moon-glitter, Harry gasped and ran down to the water line. He was hit by fear so strong it made him nauseous; it rushed through him in a scorching wave that blotted out every other emotion. Malfoy was gone; there was only ripples on the water and a pile of clothes to tell he had ever been there…

The blond head surfaced a bit further out. Gasping and grinning, Malfoy tossed wet hair out of his eyes and shouted: "Go on, Potter! Jump in! It's brilliant!"  
  
And there was air in Harry's lungs again, relief flooded him and made him warm enough to brave the black lake. He began to pull his clothes off, rejoicing in the cool air against his suddenly burning hot skin. Malfoy was laughing across the water:

"Don't throw the cloak on top of your clothes; you'll never find them again."

Harry dived. The cold water was a shock against his skin, it cleared his brain and made him more awake and alive than he had been for a very long time. He surfaced, spluttering, and filled his lungs with night air, and suddenly Malfoy was there right beside him and threw an arm around his shoulders, too loosely to want to wrestle.

Harry turned his head sharply and his nose nearly collided with Malfoy's. The other boy's eyes were dark smudges and reflections of moonlight on the water danced over his face. He looked unearthly, unreal… everything was unreal.

"Malfoy…"

His teeth were chattering, and it wasn't only because of the water.

"Yes?"

Malfoy still had an arm around his shoulders; it was cold and hard and gentle. He was so aware of that arm; the arm and Malfoy's eyes…

"I'm only asking you this because I'm… intoxicated."

"I'm impressed. You didn't even slur saying that."

"In-toxi-cated."

"Bloody hell, Potter."

"Malfoy, will you stay with me tonight?"

It wasn't the alcohol that made the world spin. It was the closeness, the dark, the blue light; it was Malfoy's arm, his naked body half an inch away from Harry's own, a film of water the only thing separating them.

"I know it's pathetic," he said. "I'd never ask you if… but you know in London? You got into bed with me. You held me. You stayed. Please. Stay."

x

Draco winced at the words and removed his arm from Potter's shoulders. His face was on fire. Potter's eyes were enormous but he couldn't see their expression.

"Look," he said quickly, "I'm sorry I did that – I…"

"No. No." Potter was shaking his head. "Please don't say you're sorry. Don't _be_ sorry. _I'm_ not. It's one of the… one of the best things anyone's ever done for me."

Potter was so close Draco could feel his breath against his cheek, feel the deep, dark notes of wine on it. The chill of the water had turned into small flames of white-hot fire on his skin and he was shaking.

"Please?"

Harry Potter, pleading. Once upon a time, this would have made Draco triumphant. Now, it made him frightened, but mostly of himself.

"Yes," he whispered.

For a split second he almost wished Potter hadn't heard him, but voices carry over water. And when Potter slid an arm around his shoulders and kissed him, lips cold and soft against his own, everything was simple. Black water, dancing moonlight, and a kiss that had waited a long time to happen.

TBC


	10. Part 9 and three quarters

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS

Part 9 ¾

Despite the fantastic, melting warmth of the kiss, they were chilled to the bone and had to get out of the water. Harry felt shy now and couldn't understand how he had dared say what he had said, do what he had done. He glanced at Draco's moonlit, preoccupied profile as the other boy put his clothes back on, and he had to smile in wonder at what had happened a few minutes back. Glinting eyes, glittering water, cold skin, warm breath… Draco Malfoy, letting himself be kissed; responding gently but without hesitation... Arms sliding around bodies to hold, to press closer and not let go... Harry's breath caught and warmth rushed through him. He had wanted to touch Draco again ever since that time they woke up together in Diagon Alley – he had known it, but not known how much.

His clothes felt rough against his skin after the silky water. He kept glancing at Draco, incredulous, but Draco's face was calm and serene and impossible to read, and he didn't look back. Harry's heart was pounding; insecurity raging. Was he placing too much importance on the kiss, reading too much into it? Was he expecting too much and seeing things that weren't there because he wanted to see them so badly? What if this was just a one time thing, a drunk impulse, one of those things that happened in a second and then were gone?

But Draco had said he would stay.

Heat uncoiled in Harry's stomach. He reached out a hand and touched Draco's shoulder, wanting to know it was all real. Draco started and turned towards him, and Harry thought he could detect a blush.

"What is it?" Draco's voice was husky.

Harry wasn't sure. It was nothing; it was everything.

"You look fantastic," he said, and it must be true, it must be possible even in the moonlight to see Draco's face turn two shades darker.

That mouth. He just had to kiss it again. So he did, and it was a better kiss this time, when they weren't shivering with cold. And if he had doubted Draco's willingness, he stopped doubting it now. Draco's hands came up over his shoulders; one went into his hair and the other cupped the back of his neck, Draco's tongue was in his mouth and he was gasping and clutching at Draco's cloak to press him closer.

Strange how hot his skin could be in the chilly air. It must be glowing in the dark. Draco's was no cooler; there must be sparks bouncing off them, to be extinguished with a hiss by the drops of water shaken from the trees by the wind.

Harry's hands slid in under Draco's cloak, under the robes, and touched bare skin at his midriff. Draco made a little noise somewhere in between a moan and a whimper, and Harry thought he had never heard anything so wonderful in his life. It was very clear to him what he wanted to do, and judging from the signs, Draco wanted just the same.

Draco's mouth moved away from Harry's and began to wander down his neck, and Harry threw his head back and buried his fingers in Draco's impossibly soft hair.

The last of the chalky rags of cloud had been swept away by the wind, and the sky was clear and full of stars. Harry closed his eyes and moaned.


	11. Part 10

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS  
  
Part 10  
  
Remus Lupin saw the boys come back from the lake. They emerged from the curtain of trees between the castle and the lake, walking so closely together that they looked like some strange, many-limbed creature. The creature parted into two for a moment, and then melted into one again, with a different shape.  
  
Lupin stood by the window and watched them kiss, and worry moved across his face like a shadow of a wing. He hadn't realised this was where all the pent-up emotions between them were going, but if he had, would he have tried to stop it? Ought he to try now?  
  
He couldn't forbid them anything; they were of age. But he felt sorry for them, saddened by the problems and prejudice they were bound to meet. It wasn't an easy path they had chosen for themselves, but hopefully, probably, they had chosen their true one.  
  
Harry's glasses glinted in the moonlight as he turned his head, and then he disappeared altogether. Lupin shook his head and couldn't help smiling. That Invisibility cloak. And the smile lingered at the thought of James, of life, of how life continued. James and Harry, father and son, the similarities and the differences between them…  
  
Their lives weren't really comparable, and their personalities showed how differently they had lived. James had been carefree and irresponsible in a way Harry had never even been close to. It made him harder to deal with than James, but it also gave him a depth that James had never had. The sharp contrast between light and shadow.  
  
Lupin watched Draco walk up to the castle with a smile on his face and his arm outstretched, an arm where the hand was invisible. He shook his head again and was suddenly very close to tears, wondering at the pain he felt. It wasn't anything as ugly as envy; it was a loneliness enormous enough to devour the light and leave him shivering in the shadows. It wasn't new. He knew it well, for he had lived with it nearly all his life. A vast, dark loneliness, undeniably dotted with bright spots of love and companionship, but the backdrop was always the same and always would be.  
  
Now when he saw the boys together, when he saw the tentative, incredulous happiness radiating from their faces, it was almost more than he could bear. It demonstrated so ruthlessly what he would never have.  
  
He was tired, so tired, as always when the moon was waning. This was his reality; this was his life and what it all came down to in the end.  
  
For a moment, he wished he had his wolf form again. Then he could have lifted his head against the star-strewn sky and let out a long howl.

xxx  
  
Harry was giggling under the cloak.  
  
"What did you do with your hand, Mr Malfoy?" he whispered. "Did you misplace it? You look _terrible_ like that. Did you leave it down by the lake? I can go back and look for it if you want."  
  
"Idiot."  
  
But Draco was grinning too, looking at his arm that disappeared into noting, enjoying the wonderful feeling of Harry's fingers interlaced with his own, Harry's palm pressed against his own.  
  
"Haven't you been told to keep track of your hands and feet and not go leaving them lying around…!?"  
  
"Shut up, Potter. You wouldn't stand a chance as a comedian."  
  
Harry was still giggling like a seven year old under his cloak. It was very odd walking next to a giggle.  
  
They entered Harry's room, and Harry swept the cloak off and threw it over a chair. Its seat and legs disappeared, and the backrest seemed to float in the air of its own accord.  
  
"Oh, look, it's just like magic!" Still in that silly, ridiculous, adorable mood, Harry snatched Draco's wand from him and danced away fom his attempts to take it back. Still laughing, he waved the wand in an exaggerated sweep towards the beeswax candles on the table. "_Incendio!_"  
  
Instantly, a flame appeared at the tapered end of each candle.  
  
The boys froze as if hit by a Petrificus spell, and silence fell like a stone. Harry stared at the candles; Draco stared at Harry. Then their eyes met. Harry had gone white at first; now blood rushed to his face and his eyes began to burn as brightly as the flames. Draco had to tell himself how to breathe.  
  
"Put them out again," he whispered.  
  
The wand shook as Harry waved it towards the candles: "_Nox._" His voice shook, too.  
  
Obediently, the flames went out.  
  
Harry let the wand sink as he stared at the fine wisps of smoke rising from the candles, curling as they met cooler air and vanishing gracefully.  
  
Neither of the boys spoke for a long time. Finally Potter turned to look at Draco, breathing fast.  
  
"I… I can't quite believe it."  
  
They stared at each other.  
  
"Can you do it again…?"  
  
It was a stupid thing to say, like a little boy who wanted to see a circus trick performed again and again. Draco regretted it before the last syllable had rolled off his tongue. Harry's eyes were wide and bright with fear, shining with hope against hope.  
  
"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know, and I'm scared to try."  
  
"Do it anyway."  
  
"I – "  
  
"Do it."  
  
Harry's trembling hand pointed the wand at one of the empty goblets on the table. The drop of wine at the bottom of it was glittering like a ruby.  
  
"_Wingardium leviosa,_" he whispered hoarsely.  
  
Nothing happened. The nothing went on until the fabric of silence was ripped by a sob.  
  
But Draco wouldn't let Harry cry, couldn't let him.  
  
"_No_, Potter! Don't give up like that! Try again. Louder. You have to be more decisive."  
  
Harry caught himself, took a deep breath and cleared his throat. The hand, the wand, the goblet…  
  
"_Wingardium leviosa._"  
  
The goblet seemed to hesitate, then made up its mind or perhaps surrendered. Draco followed it with his eyes. He thought the glittering object that rose from the wood surface, slowly and gracefully, to hang in the air as if from an invisible thread, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.  
  
Harry silently took the goblet down and handed the wand back to Draco, who took it as silently. They looked at each other, wondering what to say, what they possibly could say.  
  
"I was wondering…" Harry's voice trailed off and he had to begin again. "I was wondering if you… if you wouldn't tell anyone about this just yet."  
  
Draco gazed into the bright eyes, unable to look away, unsure how to respond. He thought of a similar plea back in London, and how strange it was that Harry Potter kept asking him to keep secrets.  
  
Harry's thoughts seemed to have wandered in same direction. He smiled shakily and said: "Pathetic, isn't it? First I beg you to keep quiet about me losing my magic, and now I'm begging you to keep quiet about getting it back."  
  
Draco returned the smile, equally shakily. He wanted to tell Potter he was pleased to be asked, pleased to be the one to keep secrets for him, but it sounded too ridiculous even inside his own head. The smile died on Potter's face and he looked like a frightened child.  
  
"_If_ it's coming back. Bloody hell, Malfoy, I'm scared."  
  
Draco's thoughts ground to a halt. Harry was scared, and it was a valid fear. Draco could sympathise with it and he wanted to respond, but he had no idea what to say or what to do. He wasn't good at comforting people – he didn't have much experience either with giving or receiving comfort. What was required?  
  
Two months back, he had simply climbed into Harry's bed and held him. But then, the situation had been so desperate – Potter was confused and ill, cold and frightened, and Draco himself shaken to the core. There had been nothing to say and only one thing to do.  
  
Potter was still frightened, but awake and thinking, aware. He might not want comfort, not like that.  
  
Now that Draco had options, he was not at all sure what to do. But did things really have to be so bloody complicated all the time? Did his own mind really have to make it so difficult?  
  
Potter was still looking at him. Draco was beginning to loathe the impulse that always seized him when things got intense: hide his emotions, withdraw, run. He could see where it came from – he had needed to withdraw to keep himself from breaking. But this was different. What would happen if he didn't run? Potter might be afraid, too, but he had taken a step forward. He was scared; but he had asked for help. What would happen if Draco simply responded the way he wanted to respond?  
  
"So am I," he whispered, although it wasn't the same thing.  
  
His heart beat wildly and he despised himself for being so afraid of rejection, but here he was, waiting for a brick to fall from the ceiling and kill him, waiting for Potter to laugh at him. As if the latter was worse than the former.   
  
"It _is_ coming back," he said. "I'm sure of it. I can't imagine it just makes an appearance and vanishes again."  
  
"I couldn't imagine you could lose it, either."  
  
"Perhaps you didn't lose it – not really. Temporarily, yes – like an illness, and now you're getting well."  
  
"Do you really think so?"  
  
Harry was staring at him as if he was the one holding hope and chances in his hands, as if he was the one who could make decisions and make fate turn. But all he held was a dawning love, his heart trapped in the cage of his ribs.  
  
He reached out a hand to touch Harry's shoulder and gently pulled him into an embrace.  
  
"What do _you_ think?" he whispered.  
  
TBC 


	12. Part 11

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS

Chapter 11

"What do _I_ think?" Harry breathed, trembling against Draco. "I think…"

His hands moved to Draco's waist, pulling him closer as naturally as if he had done it a hundred times before. He had, but only in his dreams.

"I don't _want_ to think," he breathed against Draco's cheek. "Not now."

Draco didn't reply, but his breath quickened as his fingers slowly slipped between Harry's jeans and t-shirt; cold fingertips hesitantly continuing up along Harry's spine and leaving a trace of flames. Harry closed his eyes and didn't want to know about anything at all except what was happening this moment, the intensity of here and now, of their skin and hands and mouths; the anticipation and certainty of what was going to happen. He parted his lips to Draco's tongue and allowed himself to float down the dark stream of desire.

xxx

It wasn't quite morning when Harry woke up; only a sleepy, soft beginning of a dawn. His gaze followed the pointed outline of the two windows and his body was warm and heavy. There was stillness, only stillness, and it was strange to know where he was. He was often confused and scared when he woke up, not sure where he was, fighting a sick feeling that he had done something horrible he couldn't remember, afraid he would find himself chained to the wall in a small, cold cell. But now he was still, still and safe; his heartbeat slow and regular. He knew where he was and with whom.

He slowly turned his head on the pillow, afraid to wake Draco up. But when his eyes found Draco's face, he saw the grey eyes wide open.

Draco didn't say anything, not good morning or hello or I love you. He only smiled. It was a small smile, warm and genuine and perhaps a little insecure, but it told Harry all he needed to know. There was no need to be embarrassed, no need for apologies, no need to be brisk and practical to brush aside the urgency and desperation of last night. For there had been love, too, and it was still there, warm in the cold light of morning. They could stay where they were and not be ashamed.

Harry smoothed the duvet off Draco's shoulder and let his hand slide down the white arm. His own body reacted instantly to the touch of warm skin, and he blushed with embarrassment at being excited so easily. But Draco reached out, pulled Harry to him and held him close to his own body, and it was obvious there was excitement on both parts. Draco exhaled in a long "oh" that made Harry shiver inside. When he ran a hand over Draco's hip and was rewarded with a breathy, anticipatory moan, there was no remaining embarrassment, no obstacles, no boundaries. Harry's mouth moved down Draco's throat and chest, his tongue flicking out to tease a nipple. Draco's fingers slid into Harry's hair and the room filled with soft, heavy breathing.

As Harry's tongue followed the line of fine, soft hair below Draco's navel, he heard Draco whisper something that could have been "I love you". He didn't say it back. He didn't need words to say it.

xxx

Lupin was preparing for next day's teaching when Harry burst into his office. The boy looked agitated; eyes wide and hair even messier than usual.

"Knocking on doors is a fine art that you would do well to remember," Lupin said mildly. "And practice a little, too."

Harry had the grace to flush slightly.

"Oh, sorry," he said. "But there's something I need to talk to you about."

Lupin demonstratively finished the sentence he'd been writing, put the quill aside and leant back. "Yes?"

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but didn't seem to know where to begin.

"Can I use your wand?" he said.

The way he swallowed told Lupin he was nervous, and Lupin himself felt a shiver of apprehension and excitement down his spine. He sat up straight, looked hard at Harry's tense face and then wordlessly handed him the wand.

It was strange to see his own wand in someone else's command, but it rested easily between Harry's fingers, and Lupin was getting too interested to worry. Harry turned unceremoniously to the bookshelf, pointed the wand to a book lying on top of it and said:

"_Wingardium leviosa!_"

The book soared obediently into the air, and Harry held it there for a moment. Then he let it sink back onto the shelf, turned around and placed Lupin's wand on the desk with a click of wood against wood. Lupin realised his mouth was half-open and closed it hastily.

"There," Harry said curtly. "That's what I came to show you. I've got my magic back – or at least begun to get it back."

Lupin's head felt empty, or full of winding paths that didn't connect.

"What… when - ?"

"Only last night. I discovered it by… by chance."

Thoughts began to whirl in Lupin's brain. Last night was when he had seen Harry and Draco come walking up from the lake, stopping to kiss, their faces alight with happiness…

"It scares the hell out of me," Harry said simply. "I've wanted it so badly, for so long… and now that it seems to be happening, I'm just scared. What if it's only temporary? What if it goes away again?"

"I – I don't know," Lupin said, shaken, trying to collect his thoughts. "Have you… what kind of spells have you tried?"

"Only really simple ones. Basic ones. Magic for first-years."

The mix of contempt, defiance and fear in Harry's voice made Lupin want to embrace him, but he knew it wouldn't be received well. As a compromise, he rose from his chair, went round the desk and sat on it. Now at least he had made himself approachable, and if Harry did want to be embraced, he had facilitated it. And there was something else that made Lupin want to stand close to the boy, too – something like an energy field around him, an aura; as if it was possible to physically sense his returning magic. Lupin had been tired, but the closeness to Harry seemed to give him new energy. The boy's magic had been powerful before Voldemort's fall – what was there to say it wouldn't be even stronger returning?

"And it works every time?"

"All the spells I've tried have worked… as long as I'm assertive enough. If I whisper, or hesitate, they won't work."

Lupin's head was still spinning. Draco Malfoy… the kiss… could it be that some of Draco's magic had been transferred to Harry? Was it possible – or was it just coincidence that it had happened that very night? And if it wasn't coincidence – what did that mean?

"Harry… can I ask you something very personal?"

The boy coloured and turned his face away. "Yes," he said almost inaudibly. "I've told you about everything else, so why not about this too?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're going to ask about Malfoy, aren't you?"

"Well… yes." Lupin cleared his throat. If this was love, if it truly was, then he had no wish, no desire and no _right_ to walk over new, tender emotions and happiness with heavy feet. But he had to ask – he had to.

"I saw you last night," he said softly. "I saw you coming back from the lake. You and Draco. I saw you kiss."

Harry's face glowed pink in the afternoon light. His head was bowed and his hand smoothed out the fabric of his jeans down his thigh, again and again.

"Remus… I… I'm in love with him."

Lupin didn't reply; didn't know what to reply. How did you ever know you loved someone? How could you tell the difference between love and physical desire? Was it even necessary to define differences?

"Do you think the return of your magic has anything to do with him?"

Harry looked up, met Lupin's eyes and held his gaze steadily. "I'm sure it has," he said. "But not the way you think."

"And what do I think?" Lupin asked gently.

"You think some of his magic has transferred itself to me," said Harry, "through the kiss, or through touch, or through… um… well."

"I did indeed wonder if that could be the case," Lupin conceded, politely ignoring Harry's reference and thereby acknowledging its existence.

"I don't think so," said Harry. "I definitely think it has something to do with him, but not as directly as that. He himself suggested last night that it might be… like an illness. The loss of magic. I was ill, and now I'm getting well."

It wasn't the first time Lupin had wondered what unseen depths of knowledge, emotion and intuition were hidden within Draco Malfoy, waiting to be found. He had come to love and admire the boy, but despite their shared experiences during and after the war, despite all their late night walks and their talks through the night in front of the fire, he still couldn't claim to know Draco very well. He wondered if Harry would ever see, or indeed had already seen, Draco with all his defences down – and if that was the case, _what_ he had seen.

"I will talk to your Healer," was all he said. "You will have to have an extra session with her tomorrow."

Harry nodded. "Yes, I understand that. I just wanted to tell you first. I'll go back to my room. And I… I'd like to be left alone until tomorrow. I've got all my potions, so I don't need anything."

Lupin had no doubts as to why Harry didn't want to be disturbed. He knew he ought to be happy for them – he _was_ happy for them, but their new-found joy underlined his own loneliness in a way that could only be bitter, bitter.

He berated himself for being selfish, dipped the quill into the ink bottle and went back to his work.

xxx

When Harry returned to his room he found Draco fast asleep in a golden sunbeam that slanted across the bed, and there was a faint smile on his face even in his sleep. Harry sat down at the bottom of the bed, careful not to wake him, and pulled his knees up under his chin. In less than twenty-four hours, he had had two of the most overwhelming experiences of his life – one directly due to this sleeping young man, one less directly, but yet probably connected to him one way or another.

He watched Draco's peaceful face in wonder while memories of last night played and re-played inside his head. The kisses and caresses, the gasps and moans, the sucking and thrusting and writhing… He had done it so many times before with so many different people, but always in a haze of drugs, depression and pain, never with this real, deep wish to give something back. And never with a partner who gazed at him with eyes wide with love and wonder.

He hadn't known it was possible to feel tenderness this strong, like an ache in his chest and his throat. He had never known what it was like to watch someone sleep like this and feel he wanted to stay here forever.

He hugged his knees to his chest to fight an emotion so strong it threatened to break him, and when Draco woke up a few minutes later, he found Harry rocking back and forth with his arms around his knees, tears streaming down his face. But when he sat upright, instantly worried, Harry smiled at him in a way that made questions or explanations superfluous, and it didn't matter in the least that the kiss tasted of salt.

xxx

"Yes," said the Healer and charmed her spoon to stir her tea for her, "yes, that is an entirely plausible theory."

Lupin had just presented her with the news of Harry's returning magic, and with Draco Malfoy's theory.

"The loss of magic could very possibly be an effect of a serious depression. I have seen some similar cases before, but of course much less severe – no one has ever had to go through what Harry went through. It's likely that a trauma like his could have more vast and serious effects than anything we have ever encountered before."

"And now that he is emerging from his depression, his magic is returning? And it will grow stronger as his own strength grows?"

"That would be my guess," said the Healer. "But you do realise it _is_ only a guess, although based on certain experience?"

"Yes," Lupin said. "Yes, of course. We are all guessing. Harry's case is unique – as it has always been."

xxx

"I'd like to get a new wand," said Harry almost defiantly to the Healer a few weeks later.

It was mid-November but very cold for the season, and a few early snowflakes already whirled in the air.

"Your magic seems to grow stronger every day," the Healer conceded. "If you feel ready to get your own wand again, I would recommend you to do so."

Harry shifted position slightly on the chair. Muscles ached in weird places, and he had some difficulty sitting properly. A smile crossed his face when he thought about the reason for his discomfort, and a vivid picture of a pointed face, usually so pale but now flushed pink with pleasure and physical exertion, flashed through his brain.

"I'll go to Ollivanders next week," he told the Healer.

xxx

Mr Ollivander was not indifferent to the two young men's excitement and eagerness – on the contrary. It was contagious. He forgot his age and climbed stepladders rather faster than his old legs permitted, lined up several boxes on the counter and smiled excitedly at the two young men.

"I think this might suit you, Mr Potter," he said and handed Harry a long, elegant wand of light wood.

Harry swished it, and the vase of freshly cut flowers at the far end of the counter immediately exploded.

"Oh, sorry," he said and grinned guiltily, remembering the first time he'd been in the shop. All kinds of unexpected and rather frightening things had happened then, and perhaps this visit wouldn't be much different. Only he himself was different.

"No matter," smiled Mr Ollivander, remembering, too. "How about this one?"

A shorter, sturdier wand, but no less elegant – dark, polished wood with a powerful look to it. Harry waved it. A humming noise moved around the room, and objects rattled against each other, but nothing else happened.

"It's obvious that I have _some_ kind of magic, even if it's a completely random and disorganised one that mostly creates havoc," said Harry. Draco knew it wasn't entirely a joke.

Mr Ollivander gave Harry a shrewd look and said: "Hmmm." He turned to look at the row of boxes, then back at Harry again, gave Draco a quick glance and then looked back at the boxes on the counter. "Hmmmm!" He extended a hand to one of the boxes and hesitated for a second, then opened the lid and took out a wand. There was an odd little smile on his face as he handed Harry the wand.

Puzzled, Draco opened his mouth and was about to say "But that looks…" when Harry took the wand and swished it.

The shop went quiet and dark for a moment, causing them all to gasp and exclaim, before lighting up again with a warm, golden light. A soft breeze was playing around the room, bouncing against the walls, stroking their faces, warm and fragrant… reminiscent of southern shores, ocean, exotic spices… a warm, sweet light disturbed by a dark undercurrent… and a noise like a rush of wind.

Mr Ollivander's smile was splitting his face.

"There you are, Mr Potter! There you are! This is _just_ the wand for you. How interesting!" He was gibbering with excitement, but Draco felt weak and had to lean against the counter. Harry, dazed and confused, was still waving the wand about, uttering a string of simple, meaningless little spells and watching in incredulous and childish delight when they proved to work.

"Harry…" Draco's voice didn't sound like his own at all.

"Yes…?" Harry said, only half paying attention, watching the wand emit a shower of blue stars that danced slowly to the floor like iridescent snowflakes.

"I was right!" Mr Ollivander was triumphant. "Black walnut, unicorn hair, eleven and a half inches. Fits like a dragonhide glove!"

"Do you realise that that wand…" Draco was annoyed by the lack of attention, and laughed. "Harry, are you listening?"

At last, Harry moved his eyes away from the wand, ignoring the excited Mr Ollivander who would have jumped up and down on the other side of the counter if his age hadn't denied him the pleasure. "Yes…?"

"That wand," Draco said, "is the twin of mine."

"What…?" said Harry, shaken awake from his haze of delight. "It's… _what_?"

Draco had to quench an impulse to run out of the shop, rush out of Diagon Alley, run for his life. He identified it as his old, tired habit of hiding his emotions at any cost, desperately avoiding situations where he might have to reveal them.

Harry Potter did not have that problem. He dropped his new wand on the counter, pulled Draco to him and kissed him.

Draco wasn't in the habit of wishing people an unpleasant fate, especially not people who had been kind and helpful, but at that moment, he really wished Mr Ollivander to hell.

Harry didn't seem to mind Mr Ollivanders presence, or even notice it any more. He held Draco's face in his cupped hands and kissed his forehead, his eyes, his nose, his chin, his mouth…

And Mr Ollivander, who wasn't known for being discreet, wasn't hypocritical or insincere, either. He watched the two young men with genuine benevolence and decided to close his shop for the day.

THE END


End file.
